


A Slave for You

by Write_like_an_American



Series: Quilldu Prompt Fic [3]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Arrow Insertion, Begging, Bottom Yondu Udonta, Castration, Cock Rings, Comeplay, Double Penetration, Exhibitionism, Food Sex, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Non-Consensual Groping, Object Insertion, Object Penetration, Prompt Fic, Rimming, Slavery, Topping from the Bottom, Voyeurism, post-GotG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-09-11 16:32:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 35,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8998468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: An interplanetary slave cartel has set up shop on Nova Prime's doorstep. It's up to Peter and Gamora to infiltrate - but what will they find along the way? Hint: It's Yondu.A mix of prompt fills, porn, and plot.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sintero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintero/gifts).



> **This is a prompt for the fabulous Sintero/Writhingbeneathyou, which got way, WAY out of hand. Thank you for the inspiration! I had far too much fun writing this...**
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> ****

Sometimes, Peter swears the universe has a grudge against him. It isn’t every Terran who watches their mother die and gets abducted by a band of ravenous space-pirates within the same hour. He must’ve done something awful in a past life – awful on the level of drowning kittens, stomping on baby bunnies, and smushing frogs with sticks. Yet despite the general omnishambles of his existence, somehow, for some reason, on this particular day and instant, Peter has come out on top.

Life could not get better.

Okay; minor exaggeration. The silk cushions of his divan could belong to him, rather than being on loan from the Nova government for the duration of this sting operation. His mask – a requisite for any high-profile client who wants to trade in the Great Halls of Kaharkhadur – could be a little less sweaty, and his hair, slicked back with grease in a style Dey had assured him was the height of fashion among Kaharkh slavers, could be a lot less pungent. Whoever had cleaned his suite could have opted for a few squirts of air freshener rather than profuse quantities of potpourri (there’d even been a bowl under his pillow). And, most importantly, the sprawling opulence of the Halls could’ve been funded by any other trade than this: the buying and selling of sentient cargo.

This job leaves a bad taste in Peter’s mouth. Luckily, the hors d’oeuvres cover it.

“Oh my _God,”_ he groans. The fragrant, lavender-tinted delicacy melts on his tongue. “Oh Gamora, you gotta try this. It’s so good –“

Gamora pokes his knee. Hopefully it's too fast for their fellow feasters to notice. “Kaharkh do not believe in Gods,” she whispers from one corner of her mouth. “And they certainly don’t offer slaves food from their plates.”

Because that’s what Gamora is at the moment – or what she is pretending to be. Peter’s slave.

Peter’s stomach knots. The thought of _owning_ another person is viscerally disgusting to him, but Gamora’s quiet schooling has reminded of him of just where he is and just whose identity he's assumed. Seated around the dining spread at comfortable intervals are the fifteen wealthiest clients on the Great Halls’ already exclusive invitation list. They lounge over well-plumped eiderdown poufs and intricate rugs. Their retinues stand around them in decorative clusters. Despite that they are on their feet while their masters recline, the slaves fade into the backdrop, their postures submissive and their gazes trained firmly on the ground.

Peter struggles not to stare. The man he’s impersonating would have no interest in the bodyguards, servers, and bedwarmers of his allies. _Think of them as furniture,_ he tells himself. Then realizes the connotations behind that thought, and almost chokes on his next bite.

Gamora’s there before he can cough. She offers a gilded goblet, containing a rich and aromatic wine. He accepts, and manages to bite his lip to catch the automatic ‘thank you’.

“So,” says the woman besides him. She’s slim-legged and long-legged and multi-legged too. An arachnid species from a Deepspace world too far from the galactic core for Imperial colonization, she’s far from beautiful. But she’s rich, and that’s what matters here. Her plates are stacked with insects: small, wriggling grubs and larvae and crunchy cicada-like beetles, still alive but glazed in honey so they can’t fly. As she leans across, one makes a bid for freedom, scuttling for the far edge of the tablecloth. She waits until it has an inch to go before plucking it lazily up. She rotates it between clawed fingers, admiring the fracture of light through gossamer wings. Its little legs scrabble at nothing. Then go limp, a moment before her claws pinch closed, as if it accepts that there’s no escape. “Is this slave of yours for personal use? She has a beautiful body. If you are not adverse to it, I would delight in borrowing her for the night.”

Peter makes sure his voice is under control before replying. “Uh, no-can-do. This one’s mine.”

Spider-Woman pops the bug in her mouth. Crunch. Her tongue peeps daintily rom between her mandibles, licking sugar from her claws. “Oh, but that’s not to say that you can’t do a trade. I’ll loan you any of mine, and return her in perfect condition.”

Gamora’s sword hasn’t accompanied her on this mission. Slaves aren’t armed, unless they’re registered as bodyguards – in which case Gamora would be expected to loiter on the outskirts of the hall with the other protectorate-class slaves, rather than correcting Peter’s cultural _faux pas_ with smart raps to his leg. If she weren’t the object of Spider-Woman's attention, Peter's sure she’d be flicking his kneecap hard enough to leave bruises. As it is, she stands demurely and prettily, displaying no fear at the thought that her body could be loaned out to another,a toy for the playing – or the breaking.

Peter’s gotta stop overthinking this. If he rips out his element guns and starts shooting, all he’ll do is blow their cover. They’ll be overpowered. No doubt tortured too, and butchered, and fed through the engines of the nearest spaceship so all that’s left of them is fleshy goop. But more importantly, the slave circuit will carry on. This is the only way to stop it. The only way to call this barbaric practice to a halt in their sector – perhaps forever. That’s worth the effort it takes for Peter to bottle his anger.

He gestures for Gamora to reach a treat from the next platter, and smirks at Spider-Woman as she sets another impeccable little appetizer against his lips. “Apologies. I don’t like sharing my property.”

Spider-Woman sighs, but doesn’t push. She resettles on her cushion, crossing four of her eight legs over their neighbor. “A shame. Perhaps you will change your mind if I invest in some fine specimens at the auction?”

Peter’s smile is starting to feel plastic. He stuffs his cheeks with appetizers so he has an excuse not to maintain it. “I wouldn’t count on it."

 

* * *

 

If the dining room was stunning, the auction hall is splendid beyond compare. An intaglio of gold and crystal covers the ceiling, etched lines filled with gemstones like the fissures in a fire opal. It’s arranged like the ancient gladiatorial arenas back on Terra. The amphitheater burrows down into the earth, its stage leveling out a hundred meters below the highest galleries. Of course, this means visuals are less-than-stellar – but the Great Hall's custodians are nothing if not flush, and they haven’t spared any expense on improving their patrons’ experience. Massive holoprojectors hum at each end of the stands. They’ll generate a three dimensional image, magnifying the wares on a macrocosmic scale.

On cue a cage door rattles open, and the first slave of the night stalks through.

And the next. And the next. Each is introduced individually. Not by name – slaves aren’t allowed those. But they have a serial number, an age, basic height, weight, strength measurements, and recommended occupations. These are read out by the commentator. He’s a perky young man whose cheerful rendition of each slave’s details is at odds with the situation at hand. Luckily, there’s enough acoustic reverb for Peter to blank the majority of his spiel. He doesn’t think he could stand to hear him listing stats for twelve and thirteen-year-olds.

By the time they’re onto the thirtieth slave, Peter doesn’t have to fake his yawn. He knows he should be horrified as he watches naked bodies parade or be paraded for his entertainment. But regardless of whether it’s callous to say, he has no purchasing interest. Yes, this whole situation is sickening – but Peter’s been sickened for every one of the seven days he's spent here. He’s oversaturated in anger. Without the ability to _act_ on it, the auction is a drag. Everything’s orchestrated, everything’s choreographed. Those who walk of their own volition make symmetrical circuits, looping around one side of the auditorium and then the other in a never-ending figure of eight. Their paths cross and braid without once colliding. Those who have to be coerced are less graceful. They’re led straight to the stands at the arena’s center, frogmarched between guards.

Peter makes a few bids, just to show willing. But he never fights for them. He feigns frustration as the well-built green man in the stall opposite adds a shivering A’askavarian to his collection. She (or he; the tentacles make it hard to tell) has to be dragged towards the doors beneath his gallery, behind which the rest of his purchased stock are being prepped according to their new master’s preferences.  

Spider-Woman, reclined over a lounger in the gallery nextdoor, smirks at Peter’s scowl. “Badoon enjoy slaves with fight in them,” she purrs, stroking her attendee. He remains perfectly frozen as her claws tickle his jugular. “Poor Czar made a bad choice there. I know a tongue-biter when I see one.”

“Tongue-biter?” Peter echoes. He answers her disbelieving look with a shrug. “Apologies, my translator is in need of an upgrade. I planned on having it done before I arrived, but uh, there was an incident with the Nova corps. You know how foolish that race is, what with their laws about equality between all species. Nonsense, am I right?”

“Hm.” The mask covers six of Spider-Woman’s eight eyes; the remaining two blink at Peter, placid and unreadable. “I heard a rumor that your latest cache was disrupted on delivery. It is disconcerting to have these suspicions confirmed. I wonder if it was safe for us to convene like this in Nova territory…”

This isn't the conversation Peter wants to be having. He needs her and all the other slavers to stay distracted, sated by the myriad luxuries that the Great Halls provide. At least until the Nova storm the building and take them all into custody. The fifteen most powerful slavers – fourteen, discounting the master that Peter is masquerading as – have walked away from every similar bust in the past. Their lawyers are top notch, and they’re careful not to flaunt their endorsement of illegal trades. But they haven’t taken into account the recorder in Peter’s pocket. Old Terran technology is too low-grade to be picked up by the Great Hall scanners. But, as Peter always liked to remind Yondu when he grumbled about his tape deck slipping notes and threatened to upgrade him to the latest Xandarian model, it does the job. Once Peter's testimony has been cleared by the courts, these sick fuckers will live out their remaining years in the Kyln.

Ideally, Yondu would be in there alongside them, far away from Peter and the Guardians, and the temptation to plot revenge. Peter hasn’t seen implant nor arrow of his mentor since Xandar’s salvation, when he’d used one of the sleight-of-hand tricks Yondu taught him to unhook the wrong containment orb from his belt.

A part of him aches at the lack of contact. A larger, louder part reminds himself that he doesn’t care.

“Please,” he says. “Don’t let’s discuss such topics. It was a traumatic experience, watching those Nova fiends paw over my cargo… They even searched my person! Imagine the disgrace!” He forces a shudder. “Explain ‘tongue-biter’ to me instead.”

Gamora’s gone stiff. She’s not allowed to look Peter in the eyes – that’s a sign of insolence. But everything about her posture indicates that she wishes he hadn’t asked that. Her spine only winds tighter a Spider-Woman begins to talk, over the chipper singsong of the commentator below. “It’s a common turn-of-phrase. I’m sure you’ve come across it plenty of times, moving in our circles…”

“And now, for our final feature of the night! A figure of infamy, and the only one of our slaves tonight to boast a name!”

“It refers to a certain class of slave. These can be split down further: the cowards and the prideful.”

“He’s the last known male of his kind, renowned throughout the galaxy for his ruthlessness in combat – alongside some very unique weaponry skills!”

“You see, the cowardly bite off their tongues because they can’t bear to face a cruel master. They know that whatever nightmares death may hold, it is a dream compared to what they will suffer otherwise. That A’askavarian, she is of this sort. She is terrified of the badoon. As she cannot escape him alive, she finds her release in suicide.”

“Unfortunately, for our safety those skills will not be available for your disposal… Unless, of course, you break him in thoroughly! Who knows? After a few years under a stern thumb, we might be able to sell him on for twice the price. Imagine, my dear audience: a dual-category slave, perfected both for protection and pleasure!”

A buzz of laughter, rippling around the auditorium like plasma shot dispersing through the vacuum. Peter ignores it, leaning over his chair arm to look Spider-Woman in her visible eyes. “What of the prideful ones?”

Gamora is practically vibrating. She makes as if she’s about to grab Peter’s arm – then thinks better of it. She’s staring into the arena. The cyborg-plates drilled into her forehead whir as her eyes expand. Spider-Woman casts her a bemused look, but doesn’t comment. Instead, she follows Gamora’s gaze with a clawed finger, pointing at what has captured the crowd's attention. “You want prideful? Take a look at that one. He’ll have drowned in his own blood before the day is out.”

Peter turns as the announcer finishes his speech with a dramatic crescendo. “Mutinied on by his own crew… Sold into slavery… I give you the last Centaurian, ex-Ravager Admiral and scourge of the starways! I give you…”

“Fuck,” Peter breathes.

“I give you Yondu Udonta!”

 

* * *

 

Here’s the thing: when Peter was given the rundown on this mission, he was told in no uncertain terms that he was not to make a single purchase. Not one. None whatsoever. Not only would it scupper their operation – having the key witness accused of the same crime as the defendants complicates court procedure, and there's nothing intergalactic lawyers love more than _complications_ – but there simply isn’t enough money in the pot. Not after all the other necessary expenditures: the fancy ship Peter’d arrived in, which he's under strict orders to return to the Nova Corps as soon as their mission is complete; the silky folds of his ceremonial costume; the solid gold mask.

Add to that that Peter isn’t the only person with their sights set on acquiring the Ravager Admiral? He doesn’t have a prayer. But that doesn’t mean he can’t try. He’s already turned off the recorder, and what the Nova operatives don’t know can’t hurt them.

“One hundred thou!” he calls, slamming the bidding button on the gallery’s carved underside.

“One-twenty!” Competition. The badoon is too far away for Peter to see his smirk – especially not through the projected image of Yondu, which is disturbing and distracting in equal measure. Yondu’s scrawnier than Peter’s ever seen him. Muscle and meat have been stripped away, leaving him lean as a wolf after winter. He looks like he hasn’t been fed in a month. That’s unsurprising, considering the gag. It’s a slim bit, designed to not cause permanent damage to Yondu’s jaw structure through prolonged use. But it can’t be comfortable. The projection reveals the sores around his mouth from where the sides have rubbed, and sparks fly as he grinds capped teeth over the metal.

It’s not the only new accessory he’s sporting. His crusty old Ravager longcoat has been replaced with bejewelled deckings, all in gold and ruby. The spirals match his navy chest tattoos and the patterns on his loincloth. He’s the only slave who isn’t nude. Peter’s grateful for this – or so he tries to convince himself. It makes it easier to concentrate, at least. But his gaze keeps wandering without his permission, trailing the length of the projection and settling on its source: the small blue figure, dwarfed by the wings of the stadium that rise far above him, trapping him far from the open starways that he used to call his own.

What few items Yondu has been afforded – loincloth, bicep bangles, necklaces and ankle bracelets – are intentionally skimpy. They’re designed to draw the eye along the blue skin between, evoking filthy fantasies of what they might reveal when removed. Not that Peter’s indulging those fantasies. Nope. Nosiree.  _Sure,_ there’d been a time where he regularly jerked off to the sound of captain and first mate rolling around in Yondu’s bunk. Peter used to press his ear to the wall, listening enraptured as one of them growled and took the other. To an inexperienced boy, the vicious blend of trust and hunger that fed their battles for dominance was endlessly fascinating. But that was back in the days when Peter resided in the supply closet next to the captain’s cabin, which had been converted into a poky Terran-sized room – aka, a very long time ago.

Peter left the Ravagers for a reason. His mid-pubescent wankfests – which always placed that smug blue bastard under him, his smirk devolving into whimpers as he took Peter’s cock – don’t eclipse who Yondu is: a murderous monster who’d do anything for money. (Almost anything, Peter amends himself. Yondu never trades in slaves.) And _that_ doesn’t eclipse the fact that, no matter his crimes against humanity (along with numerous other sentient species, Peter himself, and the galaxy at large) Yondu doesn’t deserve this.

“Two hundred!” he yells. The echo scarcely has time to repeat before it’s obliterated by the badoon’s thunderous boom:

“Three hundred thousand units!”

Silence. Peter’s words stick in his throat. Even if he scraped together all his personal savings, emptied the Guardians’ shared bank vaults, and begged Nova Prime for an allowance, it wouldn’t come close to paying the deposit on this bid.

He’s lost the competition. And now he’s going to lose Yondu too.

Gamora breaks the first rule of conduct – _a slave shall never touch their master unless ordered to do so._ She lays a comforting palm on Peter’s shoulder. In the booth besides, Spider-Woman’s eyes slit contemplatively. She looks to Peter, struggling to keep the fight inside of him, arm muscles bunching and shaking with the effort it takes to hold his scream. She looks at Yondu, glowering up at his audience from under heavyset brows, red eyes promising death. And she looks at Gamora, whose fingers dig into her master’s shoulder, keeping the fuming man pinned to his seat.

She touches her button. “Five hundred thousand units,” she says. And when no one dares outbid her, the auctioneer brings his gavel down with a cymbal-like crash and declares Yondu Udonta “sold”.

 

* * *

 

“What do we do?” hisses Peter. His eyes are damp and sore, which is all kinds of stupid, because how’s _crying_ supposed to help? But, so curse him, he’s a Terran. And as Yondu loves to remind him, Terrans are as sentimental as they’re tasty. “Dammit, Gamora. I don’t know what to do…”

Gamora looks anywhere but his face. “Stop talking directly to me, for a start,” she mutters. “Or at least make it look like an order.”

Of course. They’re still in public. The fifteen esteemed guests have been invited to mill around the Great Halls’ main atrium, inspecting and admiring their chattel. Peter and Gamora are surrounded by slavers, who make casual small-talk while they snap their fingers for their new property to present themselves, to open their mouths so their teeth can be inspected and part their legs for probing fingers.

The A’askavarian Spider-Woman had called _tongue-biter_ isn’t among them. Neither, to Peter’s consternation, is Yondu.

“Oh God,” he whispers. He ignores Gamora’s hushed reminder that the Kaharkh have no religion, and stumbles to the nearest chaise longue. Usually when Peter’s upset he goes into full drama-mode. There’s lots of draping, and pouting, and sulking so intense that even Drax can sense it without needing to be told outright. But right now, milking it is the furthest thing from his mind. He drops his head into his hands, cupping the heavy curves of the mask. “Oh _God._ ”

What if Yondu…

What if…

What if Spider-Woman’s prediction has come to pass? What if Peter never gets the chance to apologize for that stupid stunt with the troll doll, the one he’d thought was oh-so-hilarious at the time, but which may well have turned the Ravagers against Yondu and brought this whole hellish situation about? What if Yondu dies, choking on his own blood before Peter can say goodbye? He doesn’t know Peter’s here. He doesn’t know that there’s hope, that there’s a chance Peter can steal him away and put him back in his bulky Ravager leathers where he belongs. What has he got left to live for?

Gamora must suss the cause of Peter’s ever-more-hysterical blasphemies. She stoops over the back of the recliner, hands clasped behind her so it will look to the casual onlooker as if she’s receiving orders. “He was wearing a gag,” she says. Her voice is a measured counterpoint to Peter’s staccato breaths. “He couldn’t kill himself even if he wanted to.” A pause, during which Gamora weighs Yondu’s determination and ingenuity against whatever restraining measures the Grand Halls might have implemented. “At least, not via that method.”

Peter splutters a laugh. “Wow. Thanks Gamora, that’s really reassuring.” It’s not fair to snap at her. She’s trying to help in her weird, alien way. But Peter’s spent three quarters of his life surrounded by weird alien ways. Stupid Andromeda galaxy residents and their stupid stunted emotional compasses. Gamora may be attempting empathy, but she’s far from a trained counselor, and her words only make Peter’s hatred for this place seethe higher. He wants to destroy it. Burn it. Raze it to the ground –

“What took you so long?” growls the badoon, loping forwards to catch Yondu’s chin. He slants his angular blue face this way and that. “I was starting to think you planned on keeping this one from us.”

Spider-Woman doesn’t protest his manhandling of her slave. She curtsies gracefully, extraneous legs sweeping the floor. “I could never – not when I saw how fiercely you and the Kaharkh were haggling over him.” She taps Yondu’s implant, making his eyebrow twitch and his thin shoulders hunch. Then trails her claws down his spine, following the scar that’d gotten Peter punched whenever he enquired about it, back in the days when he and Yondu would wash up together after missions (and Yondu would slope off to the company of Kraglin in his cabin, while Peter was left to frustratedly pound his own tight-squeezed fist). It’s a possessive gesture. The action of someone who’s owned people for so long that they don’t have to think about the way they handle them anymore. But Yondu is anything but accustomed to being property. He arches on instinct, squirming away from that icy hooked claw. He’s trying to hold it together, but Peter can tell he’s powered in equal parts by fury and panic.

The badoon catches him before he can bolt. He detains Yondu with a single arm that wraps his waist like an anaconda, pinning him facefirst to that burly green chest. His other hand sneaks under the fringe of the loincloth, kneading Yondu’s bare blue thigh.

“Perhaps you’ll allow me a night in his company,” he says. “You lack the necessary… equipment, to put this one in his place.” Yondu hisses around his gag. With his arms trapped by his sides, smacking his forehead off the badoon’s sternum is the closest to retaliation he can get. It’s about as effective as tossing a Terran battering ram at the gates of a Kree fortress. The Badoon chuckles, hand inching further under the loincloth. Peter can’t look away from the shifting fabric, the creases and folds hinting at what’s occurring beneath. Yondu’s rigid back and the rapid flutter of his ribcage are just as telling. “Not unused, I notice.”

Spider-Woman’s mandibles chitter. This time, despite that it involves much the same process – each hairy knee crooks, and her hands make extravagant circles as if she’s painting in midair – her curtsy is distinctly displeased. “Release my slave, Czar. He is promised to another for tonight. You’ll get your fill later.”

Peter’s throat clamps. _Another?_ God, he can’t bear to watch this. He can’t stand it; he _won’t._ Once upon a time, when he and Yondu were at each other’s throats on every subject from whether Peter was responsible enough to handle his own M-ship, to why Yondu’s favorite dashboard ornament had been stomped to powder after Yondu put Peter on scrub-duty for three days straight, Peter had longed to see him humiliated. It’d seemed unfeasible. Impossible. Yondu was the toughest of the toughest: admiral of a Ravager fleet. He’d been invincible. His reputation preceded him, and on half the ships they boarded he hadn’t needed to whistle to have their crews surrendering. No threat displays were required; anyone who was anyone knew to fear Udonta’s name. It was only natural that those he’d wronged, Peter included, want to see him taken down a peg – preferably several.

But not like this, Peter tells himself. Never like this. Not when Yondu is so furious yet helpless, as desperate for escape as the cicada that’d strayed from Spider-Woman’s plate.

Peter’s nails scour angry red crescents into his palms. He’s going to get Yondu out, even if it means flouting Dey’s orders and killing every slaver here. Fuck Xandarian justice. Fuck life sentences and mercy, and fuck _heroes don’t kill_. Peter’s gonna name himself executioner for every sorry shmuck who dares _touch_ what is his…

“Kaharkh!” calls Spider-Woman. She reels Yondu away from the Badoon, winding her claws through the chain links in his necklace. He doesn’t exactly go grudgingly – his eagerness to be out of Czar’s clutches is self-evident. But he still lags as she tugs him to Peter, feet scraping the floor. If he didn’t know her bodyguards would pick him up and carry him, he’d probably have sat down and refused to budge. His eyes are fierce in the creased blue scrunch of his scowl. They bore through Peter’s mask. For a moment, Peter’s convinced that he knows – that he sees through the ornate gold to the man beneath, whose chest burns for vengeance against all who’ve wronged his captain.

…Ex-captain. He’s gotta remember that.

Spider-Woman must sense his conflict. She smiles at him, slyly saccharine, and passes the heavy loop of chain. It suspends a large golden medallion, dangling between Yondu’s pectorals like the pendulum on a grandfather clock. “Now. About your little lady-slave over there…”

She points at Gamora, waiting by the chaise Peter has vacated. Her slim back is turned, hair wafting to its small. Peter’s confused – before he realizes that she doesn’t want Yondu to recognize her and blow their cover. She still thinks there’s something from this mission to be salvaged. Peter wishes her the best of luck. Personally, he’d settle for the three of them getting out of the Great Halls alive.

But that doesn’t mean he’s prepared to sell Gamora in exchange for Yondu, especially against her will. “Still not on offer,” he growls. Spider-Woman champs her mandibles in a manner that could indicate aggravation or laughter.

“Oh, no worries. All I ask is that the pair of you give me an hour to gather my retinue and flee this place before you call reinforcements.” She breezes on before Peter can contradict her, whisper too hushed for the nearest potential eavesdropper to overhear – although Yondu, sandwiched between them and glaring at the hand gripping the chain around his neck as if he’d very much like to bite it, is privy to all. “Oh, I knew the Nova Corps would try something. I came well-prepared. This one…” She pats Yondu’s implant, earning a baring of shiny silver teeth. “…Is my assurance. In case you’re not willing to let me walk out of here on good faith, I took the time to add to his accessories.”

“Really?” Peter looks him up and down. Yondu stands stock-still under the examination, which reveals nothing Peter doesn’t already know – that Yondu’s pretty small but boasts enough personality to dwarf men twice his height, that he’s painted shoulders-to-hips in swirling tattoos, that he’s older than Peter but his exact age is near-impossible to place, and that his skintone is really quite stunning when offset with gold. “I see nothing that wasn’t there in the auction hall.”

Spider-Woman titters. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so obvious. What do you know about cock-training?”

The question smacks Peter full-frontal, hurtling into one ear and out the other. “Wh-what?” is all he can stutter. Spider-Woman stretches her fleshy black lips around her mandibles, eyes half-lidded in amusement.

“You don’t know about tongue-biters, you don’t know about cock-training… Is it any wonder I sussed your ploy, Nova? Now, I suppose I’d better give you a crash course. Cock-training is quite simply as it sounds. You train a slave – usually an unruly one – to take meat like he was made for it, and love it too. With me so far?”

Peter manages a nod. Yondu would be sneering if the gag allowed it. As it is, he hunches as Spider-Woman rests her palm on his back, but remains rigid, confrontational, like he’s daring Peter to laugh. Whatever his new mistress has done to him, it’s designed to humiliate, and Yondu isn’t happy about it.

Spider-Woman strokes up and down, reveling in his discomfort. Her claws snag on the thong holding Yondu’s loincloth. “There’s many ways of cock-training, you see. Sometimes you select the wrong method to begin with, and you have to start over from scratch. But I have an eye for these matters. I know what makes people tick – and what makes men break. So in Udonta’s case, I’ve opted for a time-honored favorite.”

Peter’s throat’s drier than asteroid. “What do you mean?”

Her mandibles clatter again, and she pushes Yondu forwards, his bare chest bumping Peter’s robes. “Why don’t you stick a hand up his skirt and find out?” 

 

* * *

 

Peter feels sick again. Must be his stupid, sentimental Terran side.

If Yondu knew his identity, he’d be grateful that he’d never managed to crush that part of the wide-eyed Terran boy. Anyone less inclined to emotional attachment would’ve cut their losses and left him to Czar.

Peter catches Gamora’s eye – making sure Yondu’s not looking – and signals for her to stay. Last thing he needs is her judgment. There’s already several portions of guilt compounded inside him: guilt for the troll doll, guilt for leaving in the first place. And he hasn’t even fucked Yondu yet.

Gamora must have questions, but she has no choice but to do as she’s bid. Not while Spider-Woman’s watching. Those clever eyes absorb and catalog in equal measure. Peter grips his old mentor’s shoulders, hating how thin they’ve become, and steers him towards his assigned quarters.

“You’re sure this will work,” he grits, pushing aside the heavy privacy curtain that substitutes a door. From behind it wafts the unmistakable scent of potpourri. “I cum inside him –“ He ignores the way Yondu twitches, ignores the muffled growl that husks from his throat. “-And the ring will stop tightening?”

Spider-Woman bobs her sleek grey head. “I tell no falsehoods. Have fun, you two. And please, take your time.”

The curtain falls closed behind Peter. The pair of them are swallowed by darkness. Then lamps crank to life, washing them in iridescent amber. Peter’s suite is comprised of three rooms, all decorated in sumptuous filigree. The ceiling is a tessellating mosaic of arabesques: a pattern of interlocking flourishes that makes Peter’s brain ache to imagine the hours of craftsmanship that were poured into it. It’s magnificent, intended for a lord of the Kaharkh sub-empire. That lord is currently languishing in accommodation at the opposite end of the luxury-spectrum: a cramped Nova holding cell. But that's inconsequential. The bed is silk-soft and built to be shared, and between the glowing lamps and the wafting incense, the atmosphere could very almost be romantic.

Shame his partner doesn’t agree.

Yondu pushes away from him the moment they’re alone. It’s futile. He knows there’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. Malnourished and gagged, whistle stoppered and arrow locked deep in the Great Halls’ armory, Yondu’s too smart to favor his odds.

He still has his pride though. He walks to the bed, head held high. The effect’s offset by his bow-legged gait – the ring must’ve tightened already. Spider-Woman’s warning reverberates through Peter as he follows him, admiring the gloss of sherry-colored light over blue skin.

 _The gelder is primed to release only once he’s been seeded. If you don’t cum inside him within the hour…_ She’d let her pincers click closed, inches from the front panel of Yondu’s loincloth. _Snip._

“Y’know we have to do this, right?” Peter says. He approaches Yondu warily - then, when he doesn't shy away, brushes his jaw, over the straps of the gag and the knots from where he’s grinding his molars. “You know there’s no other way. I can’t take the gag off, because you’d kill me along with every other a-hole in this den. And I can’t just… not fuck you. Not unless you, uh. Don’t mind losing…” He gestures down. There are some horrors words can’t equivocate.  

Yondu treats him to a dark look. He’s effortlessly expressive. Peter wants to smooth his thumbs over his scrunched forehead, kiss away the frownlines – but that wouldn’t be fair. Yondu has a right to be angry. If he directs that anger at Peter… Well, he has a right to do that too.

Peter opts to keep his mask on though. Just in case Yondu hasn’t worked out who he is.

“Look, I won’t… I won’t hurt you. I know you don’t want this, but if you just relax –“

Yondu doesn’t have much in the way of eyebrows – doesn’t have much in the way of bodyhair at all, ignoring the stubble on his chin; another fact that Peter shouldn’t find so arousing. He raises one anyway. Peter fills in the missing words: _My_ _cock’s in serious danger of bein’ chopped off, and you want me to_ relax?

“It’ll make this easier,” Peter tries. Yondu just rolls his eyes and collapses onto the mattress, arms stretched above his head. He hooks a pillow, shunts it under his hips, and crooks his fingers at Peter, glaring the whole while. “Okay, okay. Get it over with, huh? Well don’t blame me for wanting a little romance…” He narrates to his belt buckle, which crimps his fine silk robes in at the waist. Once that's removed he progresses to phase 2: peeling off the long sari-like undergarment. He’ll need to call Gamora if he wants to leave in a presentable state – he has no idea how to redress himself. “I sure hope Hotel Hospitality covers lube,” he mutters, pushing the fabric to his waist.

His torso is a solid block, biceps almost as thick as his head. Peter’s built sturdy. He’s made for brawling, fighting, and fucking. Even among the Guardians – all of whom are stronger than him, with the exception of Rocket – he can hold his own. He ought to feel flattered that Yondu’s watching so intently. But he’s also hyperaware of the scars on his trunk, one for each past fling that went awry. Yondu himself had stitched up the worst: griping the whole time, dousing them with alcohol under the pretense of sterilization (Peter remains convinced it was punishment), and slapping Peter whenever he tried to wuss out and lose consciousness. Hopefully, the dim lighting lets them fade into Peter’s freckles.

Peter plucks a promising looking pot off the bedside table. It’s either lube or more hairgel - which can substitute, in a pinch. He joins Yondu on the bed, trying to ignore the jitter of his heart. Why’s he nervous? Peter’s fucked a thousand people of a thousand genders and species. He’s worked his way around half the damn galaxy. So why is the thought of finally adding his captain – _ex-captain_ – to that tally making his chest ache?

Maybe it’s because he’s wanted Yondu for so long that now he’s in reach, Peter is being hit by a rare dose of performance anxiety. Maybe it’s because of the way Yondu spreads his legs: stoic and cold, making it clear as he non-verbally can that he’s not going to flatter Peter’s ego by pretending to want this.

Maybe it’s just the reek of potpourri.

Peter pulls away. Ignoring Yondu’s growl – _get back here, dammit; it’s my cock at stake_ – he fishes under the mattress and pulls out another bowl of pungent leaves. “Seriously?" He wishes he could pinch his nostrils through the mask. “I hate this stuff.” He flings it at the far wall. The clatter is almost as satisfying as Yondu’s snigger. “Oh yeah? You too?” Yondu lifts one shoulder higher than the other, waggling one hand in the universal ‘so-so’ gesture. Peter’s mouth curls up at the corners. “I’ll let you toss the next one we find. Deal?”

It’s not like it makes up for anything. Yondu’s still at his mercy – his soft cock is visible through the loincloth, the castration ring bulking out its base. But Peter’s promise wins a crinkling of his eyes, one that usually precedes a grin. The legs that welcome him onto the mattress are markedly more eager. An ankle even hooks across Peter’s lower back. Peter’s heart buoys up his throat.

“For the record, I’m sorry,” he says. He catches himself on his hands. He’s knelt over Yondu, chest-to-chest, their pelvises just brushing. In Peter’s imagination, their sex is a dirty affair, punctuated by grinding and grunts and loud, shameless groans. This situation demands something far gentler. Looking into Yondu’s eyes (which could almost be slitted in amusement rather than hatred – hard to tell, what with the gag) Peter tries to compress all his promises into a single, smoldering look.

_I care about you. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m getting you out of here._

Yondu bangs his heel off Peter’s kidney. Peter doesn’t need to hear his voice to imagine him telling him to hurry the fuck up. It would be gravelly-rough, tinged with frustration and fondness in a unique blend that’s reserved for Peter and Peter alone. Not that Yondu knows who it is on top of him. But it’s nice to pretend that they’re doing this because they want each other, not just for the sake of Yondu’s endangered dick.

On cue, there’s a faint mechanical whir. Yondu’s expression becomes decidedly strained. Peter winces. “Okay, okay. I’m gonna. Uh. Stretch you a bit first.”

He sits back on his heels, Yondu remaining flat-out. Peter rearranges him so one blue thigh is slung over each of his, and dabbles his fingers in the slick-pot. He’s half-hard already. It’s wrong. His guilt is almost enough to dampen the erection – but every time Peter looks at the picture before him; Yondu decorated in gold regalia, hoops in his ears and necklaces slithering serpentine across his chest; his cock lurches up.

He flips back Yondu’s loincloth. Winces again, at the sight of that ring. It bunches the loose skin at Yondu’s base, blue already bruising purple. Just looking at it, with its sharp gold teeth and automatic clamp, makes Peter’s prick throb in sympathy. There’s no chance Yondu’s getting hard, not with his bloodflow so restricted – but Peter hopes the ring is the only thing that's stopping him.

“Is this okay?” he breathes. Pushes on Yondu’s legs until his hip joints creak and Yondu pants wetly around the edges of the gag. Then trails sticky fingers over his perineum, swooping to nestle in the warm space between his asscheeks. “Can I –“

Another buzz from the cockring. Another kick to the kidneys. Peter gets the message.

“Read you loud and clear, cap’n,” he can’t help but snark, as he spears that little pucker open. It flowers nicely to the pressure, Yondu knowing how to bear down and clench. Long nights spent eavesdropping on him and his first mate reel through Peter’s mind. He wonders where Kraglin is now. Then remembers the commentator’s story from earlier: _mutinied on by his own crew and sold into slavery…_ Kraglin’s either dead, or he’s the one who led the uprising – Peter can’t think of any other explanation why it isn’t him here, feeding slick digits into his captain one after the other.

He adds the third too rapidly. Yondu jerks, calves tensing where they’re hooked over Peter’s elbows. “Sorry,” Peter whispers. He locks out his arms, forcing Yondu to keep himself on display. He’s got the man folded up over himself, soft cock resting on his abdomen while Peter teases his hole. He gives himself an extra pump, testing his stiffness, and discovers that the lack of attention hasn’t done him any disfavors. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna put in in you. I mean. I can. If you want me to. Or… Or…”

He never finishes that sentence. Because Yondu, losing patience, wraps his legs around Peter’s head wrestler-style and rolls to one side.

It’s follow or fight. Peter chooses the former.

But rather than being throttled between wiry blue thighs, Peter’s released as soon as he’s on his back. “Shit! What did I do? Did I hurt you, did I –“

Yondu rolls his eyes again. He scoots down Peter’s belly, loincloth flopping over the spiked cockring, hiding the evidence of his motivation. Then, after a moment’s contemplation, he spins around. Peter can trace his longest scar, from the slope of his implant to where it dips beneath the loincloth’s golden rope. He does so with a reverent finger. “You… wanna ride me? Reverse cowgirl? That right?”

Yondu lets his actions do the talking. He pointedly leans down, rubbing drool-smeared lips across the crest of Peter’s cockhead.  _By the stars._ Peter gasps, hips bucking of their own accord. Yondu wipes one side of his mouth along his cock, then the other. He might as well be using him as a napkin, getting rid of the spitty residue that’s gathered after spending countless days with his jaws wedged apart. But damn, if it’s not the hottest thing Peter’s seen since that time with the Gravarian Duchess…

Yondu’s ass bobs in his forevision, concealed only by the sheer fabric of the loincloth. The muscles in his thighs flex as he mimes swallowing Peter to the root. Peter tries to distract himself by counting the swirls on the ceiling, but can’t get past six before his vision starts to fuzz. “Don’t you need me to cum inside you? And – and Yondu, look buddy, I’m sure you give amazing blowjobs…”

Yondu’s smirk, delivered through the blue pictureframe of his legs, says _damn right I do._ He buries his nose in the curly ginger thatch of hair that sprouts from Peter’s pelvic bone, nuzzling to his balls, inhaling deeply the whole way. Peter scrabbles for purchase. He winds up clinging to Yondu’s legs, digging his fingers into his thin calf muscles to ground himself before he’s swept away by sensation. “…But I’m not taking that gag off. Nuh-uh. No can do. Now hurry up and sit on my dick before we miss our chance…”

The peril his second-favorite sex organ is in makes Yondu think twice about teasing him further. But rather than settling onto Peter’s cock like a jockey mounting a horse, Yondu transitions from smearing his spit over him to a simple, classic jerk. Peter would claim to be disappointed. But he’s not in the headspace to process anything other than pleasure. Pleasure as Yondu’s fingers – less calloused than his own, having spent fewer hours wrapped around a pistol hilt – grip and pull and twist. Pleasure as Yondu shuffles until he’s sat on Peter’s lower abdomen, thick pink Terran cock jutting from between his own legs like a Frankensteinian prosthetic. Pleasure as Yondu rubs his ass over Peter’s treasure trail, moaning through the gag as hair tickles his loosened, lube-leaking hole…

He tries to give Yondu as much warning as possible.

“F-fuck, I’m gonna… If you wanna hop on, be my guest! Any time now would be good!”

But the rapid, rhythmic squeeze of Yondu’s fist is unstoppable. Peter quakes from the effort of abstinence. He wars against the insistent friction, Yondu’s rocking hips, the yearn for release… But in the end, staving off the orgasm is about as effectual as shouting back the tide. “Y-Yondu! Yondu, I’m –“

Those are the last words Peter manages. The last coherent ones, at least. He digs his toes into the mattress, heaving his pelvis up with Yondu still perched atop of it. He holds that bridge while shudders jar through him. Yondu, knees not quite brushing the sheets, lets hot twitching flesh spill from his fingers with an amused snort.

His semen-coated fingers. Creamy white drizzles blue. Peter watches, panting and unable to form a single word as Yondu dismounts and shuffles off to one side. He allows his hips to lower. It’s a miracle they don’t crash – he has about as much fine muscle control as an eel on land. He reaches for Yondu – because he’d come too soon, or Yondu hadn’t taken the chance in the short window when it was presented; but either way the poor guy’s gonna lose his party-piece.

Yondu dodges the outstretched palm. He caught the majority of Peter’s cum one-handed. Now he scoops up the trailing ends of his loincloth with the other and winds them through the waiststrap, plucking the thong to one side so he has room to maneuver. Then, with clinical precision, he coats his longest fingers and sinks them in.

Peter whimpers. If there was anything left in his balls, it’d be seeping out right now.

Yondu makes a spearpoint, bouncing on it like his endgame is to snap his own wrist. The angle’s awkward, but Yondu’s chasing efficiency more than pleasure. Rather than circling his prostate, he concentrates on coating his innards in Peter’s milky seed. He’s already well-slicked. Add cum to the mix, and the quiet squelches as his knuckles graze his rim make Peter contemplate a second round. There’s something delectable about Yondu’s self-sufficiency: the reminder that even when bound and starved and more vulnerable than Peter’s ever seen him, Yondu Udonta can look after himself. Yes, a part of Peter wants Yondu to depend on him for once. But getting Yondu into that state would require more sadism than Peter has the stomach for.

It’s over quickly – for which Peter ought to be gladder than he is. Yondu doesn’t make a sound as the cockring comes loose. It slithers free and plops onto the coverlets, harmless as a toothless piranha. His relief is euphoric as it's silent. Yondu sits on his heels and shuts his eyes, navy lashes sticking to his cheeks. He exhales slowly, past the point where his lungs have deflated, until his ribcage quivers from the strain. Strands of intermingling lube and cum seep from his hole. Threads stretch between his fingers: he splays them wide, watching them expand and bead and finally break. Peter doesn’t doubt that if he had access to his mouth he’d already be savoring that concoction: salt and sweet and sour, like seaside taffy.

For now though, there’s more to focus on than whether Peter would be able to taste himself on Yondu’s fingers if he kissed them. The afterglow has yet to fade; however, it has depleted to levels where Peter feels capable of moving, talking, possibly even walking without falling flat on his face. And he still has a job to do.

“C’mon,” he says, rolling for the edge of the mattress and his discarded garments. “Let’s get you onto a ship and outta here before the Nova arrive. I’m guessing you don’t want this on your permanent record.”

His clothes are a shimmering golden ice-lake, waves frozen in fabric tableau. That tranquility is soon disturbed; Peter drapes them over himself in a haphazard guesstimation of how Gamora had dressed him that morning. He clips the belt over the top. He’s prevented from buckling it. Yondu tugs until Peter lets the heavy leather slide free. Then – rather than throttling him with it and escaping on his own terms – sets it to one side. He huffs under his breath and sets to righting him, tugging the silks this way and that until they hang smoothly from Peter’s broad frame rather than bulging around his belly, like how he’d bundled a shivering eight-year-old into oversized red leathers twenty-six-and-a-half years ago.

It’s not as neat as Gamora’s efforts, but it’s miles better than his own attempt. Peter wishes he could remove his mask long enough to treat Yondu to a grateful smile. He fastens the belt for the second time, able to cinch it in a notch tighter now that his robes hang properly, emphasizing the firm plateau of his waist.

“Thanks. And uh, don’t worry about any of… this.” Description fails him. A wave of a hand will have to suffice. “I ain’t telling no one. I promise. I mean, I’m just some Nova nobody. Who’d even believe me?”

Yondu’s gaze calls bullshit. Peter elects to ignore that – as he ignores the hands stroking his obliques, feeling the cut of the muscle through the silk. Yondu’s just wiping his messy fingers. If he can’t clean them with his tongue, toweling off on Peter’s swanky robes is the next best thing.

“In fact, you’ll likely never see me again,” Peter lies, turning his head to face the wall. “So you can just forget all about this, and go back to robbing space cruisers, or collecting stupid figurines, or whatever else it is you like to do with your spare time. Sound good?” Yondu tips his head to one side, mock-considering. Then nods. Peter returns it and steps away, striving for 'professional' even as his heart pounds at the thought of letting Yondu go again. “Right. Then let’s skedaddle, before we both wind up on the front cover of the Xandarian Digital Weekly.”   

 

* * *

 

When the next issue of the Xandarian Digital Weekly pings into the _Milano’s_ incoming mailbox, Peter, Gamora, and Yondu’s mugshots are nowhere to be seen. Neither is Spider-Woman. Peter scours the entire report front to back, glaring at the faces of the monsters he’d broken bread with not three nights ago, but can’t find her. He tells himself not to worry. They’ve bagged the majority of the slavers, whose appeals have been dismissed thanks to Peter’s mic. Sure, Spider-Woman slipped away – but they’ll find her. They’re the Guardians of the Goddam Galaxy.

Right now, Peter’s more concerned with finding Yondu.

“Why’re you lookin’ for that old blue jerkass?” Rocket complains. He's twiddling his whiskers, lounged over his favorite seat in the rear of the cockpit, which has been specially lowered for ease of his short furry legs. “Y’know the Ravagers want the lot of us dead? You especially, Quill?”

Peter shakes his head. “Yondu isn’t running with the Ravagers anymore. He’s gone solo. Like me.”

“An’ you know this _how?_ ” Peter fails to provide an adequate answer. After he’s floundered for a whole minute, Rocket takes pity on him, hopping off the chair and sauntering for the hatch that leads below-decks. “Fuck, I don’t even care. Jus’ don’t you go adopting no strays.”

Big talk from the raccoon. Peter decides against voicing that.

He waits for the slam and clank of the trapdoor. Then activates the comm. Who knows if Yondu’s still on the ship Peter’d piled him into, after he escorted him out to the docks under the guise of returning him to his mistress? He may well have upgraded; found himself a nice fat Nova war-frigate to steal in the chaos. But hey. There’s only one way to find out.

Peter flicks the radio toggle. “Yondu?” he says.

The image takes a while to coalesce. But when it does, it’s unmistakable – Yondu ungagged, sprawled on a captain’s chair where he belongs. There’s an oily slick of blood down his front. It’s black as bitumen, so not his own. Peter can’t decide if that’s more concerning or less. Then he sees the new dashboard ornaments that Yondu’s fashioned out of Spider-Woman’s mandibles. Definitely ‘less’.

“You’ve been busy,” he says, nodding to them. And then, before Yondu can wonder how he got his comm number – “Uh. Some Nova geek told me you’d been spotted stealing a ship of this designation. I figured I’d check in. How you holding up, old man?”

Yondu snorts. “Old man yerself.” He sounds awful – unsurprising, as he’ll have been hydrated intravenously since his capture. His gravelly voice has gone from ‘smoker’ to ‘spontaneous combustee’. His voicebox might as well be a lump of charcoal. He’s still far too thin, but he’s in a longcoat again – not Ravager red: something dark and subtle and made to blend into the shadows. Perfect for a man on the run. And there’s his arrow, gold tip poking from his sleeve. Yondu must’ve scoured the wreckage of the Halls for it. He’s lucky it wasn’t obliterated when the airstrikes rained down.

It is, Peter notices, the same color as the earhoops and necklaces and other adornments Yondu had been wrapped in before he was sold. He wonders if he kept them. Excluding the gelder, of course. But there’s no way he can ask without giving himself up. He plasters on a jaunty grin.

“Seriously, something’s different about you. Have you changed diet plan? Done something new with your hair?”

Yondu shoves his middle finger so close to the comm-camera that it blocks out his face. The chipped nail pixelates at proximity. “Could say the same for you,” he says, around it. “You sure look different from the last time I saw ya.”

Peter laughs nervously. “What, you mean after the Xandar? The whole troll-doll thing? Can we just forget about that? I did what I had to, man; you can’t hold it against me –“

The finger retreats. Yondu’s eyes are impenetrable. “Nah. I’m talking about three nights ago. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.” When Peter’s jaw works soundlessly, he angles forward on the chair, grin somewhere between mocking and icy. “You. Me. Mask. Cockring. Stop me when I get warm.”

Peter’s so screwed. “I’m sorry,” he gabbles, words sliding into each other. “Shit Yondu, I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do –“

“Ya could’ve taken the damn gag out.”

“I thought you’d _kill me_ –“

“I knew it was you, idjit! Not _right_ away, but I worked it out pretty damn fast –“

“And I didn’t know that’d stop you! C’mon, Yondu. How many times have you threatened to whistle me through over the years? After the troll doll shtick...“ That’s what they’re calling that incident; it feels safer than anything involving the words ' _Infinity_ _Stone_ ' _,_ as if they might summon Thanos himself. “Why wouldn’t I assume that I’m number one on your hitlist? Heck, I still am, for all I know!”

Yondu’s cracked lips peel away from his teeth. “You’d haveta get in line,” he snarls. He’s hunched on his chair, small and furious. Despite the clipped words, there’s a fragile veneer to his rage. Peter swallows.

“Kraglin,” he says.       

Yondu neither confirms nor denies. “All I’m sayin’, boy, is that ya could’ve found another way –“

“Yeah, but not before the ring _cut your goddam dick off_ –“

“– But you didn’t. Admit it. You _wanted_ to fuck me.” Peter’s mouth snaps shut. Sensing victory, Yondu continues, smirk smug as a snake’s. “Aw yeah. You wanted it _bad._ How long you been thinking dirty thoughts ‘bout your captain, boy?”

“Ex-captain,” Peter reminds him. His voice sounds weak even to his own ears. Dammit, he just wanted to make sure Yondu was okay. Not… not _this._ This is what he gets for trying to be nice _._ “And for the record? You’re wrong. You’re old and ugly and blue and not my type in the _slightest._ “

“Mm-hm. You were arrow-hard and ya hardly touched yerself. Don’t think I didn’t notice. And you was starin’. Why boy, if my blood weren’t the same color as my skin I’dda blushed.”

Denial is useless. Peter fishes through his pot of barbs, and finds another to hurl. “Look man, you stole me from my home! I was just a kid! Course we’re gonna have a weird relationship!”

“Stockholm syndrome’s one thing,” says Yondu snidely. Heaven knows where he picked that phrase up – probably from Peter himself. Back on the _Eclector,_ he’d bandied it around Yondu whenever he was mad at him. “Wanting to fuck the guy who’s the closest thing you got to a daddy is another. You got issues Quill.”

“And who gave them to me?”

Stalemate. They sneer at each other. If pathetic fallacy existed, the commlink would be crackling from the force of their clashing glares.

“I hate you,” Peter hisses. “Don’t think otherwise.”

“Ya still rescued me. Coulda left me there, with spiderchick and the big green lout.” Yondu’s pokerface is excellent; he doesn’t betray so much as a twitch at the memory of that green lout’s hand, roaming beneath his loincloth while he was powerless to stop it. “Butcha didn’t.”

Peter throws his hands into the air. “Of course I didn’t! I’m not a monster!”

Yondu waves him off, electing (as usual) to put his selective interpretation of Peter’s words to good use. “So lemme get this straight. You wanna fuck me, you don’t want _other_ people to fuck me, and you’re callin’ me up to ask after my _feelings._ This your pathetic Terran attempt at courting, boy?”

Peter starts to snap back – _I wouldn’t court you if you were the last man in the galaxy._ Then forces himself to pause, and consider. If you strip away the derision, and the ‘pathetic’, and the coarse recitation of events… Yondu almost sounds hopeful. His scowl is of the feigned variety, and as Peter lets the silence drag it becomes ever-more obvious.

“I had fun,” Peter says slowly. He doesn’t mention the history of his attraction – Yondu doesn’t need to know that Peter’s been lusting after him since he was fifteen, or that the walls of the captain’s cabin aren’t as soundproofed as he’d assumed. Especially if that cabin no longer belongs to him. Peter allows a tiny smile to creep onto his face, spurring Yondu’s own. “I had _lots_ of fun. I’d have more fun if you let me fuck you properly –“

“Hey. You were the one takin’ yer sweet time. Things were gettin’ mighty tight up front – can ya blame me for taking it into my own hands?” Yondu sniggers at his own joke. “Literally.”

“ – But I don’t want nothing exclusive. Casual-only. I’m not being your rebound.”

Rather than being offended at the suggestion, Yondu shrugs and concedes the point. If there's more to this Kraglin-situation than what's on the surface, Yondu will elaborate in his own time. “Deal. We’re in it for the nookie-nookie, not the long haul. Fine by me. But Quill?”

Peter, distracted by jubilant butterflies – because this is _actually happening;_ he and Yondu had almost-sex and now they’re gonna go the _whole way –_ snaps his attention back to the Centaurian. “What?”

Yondu strokes the mandibles on his dashboard. His grin is wily as Peter’s ever seen it. And even if he desperately needs to put on weight, even if he’s still reeling internally from whatever had been done to him by the slavers before he was declared sale-worthy and the Ravagers before that, that grin is all Peter needs to know that Yondu’s gonna be okay. “If there’s any more of dem stinky flower-bowls…”

Oh yeah. They’d made a deal. Peter winks. “You get to smash them. I promise.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt fill/Christmas gift for bbb35 on tumblr! Thanks for being awesome, and I'm glad to have made a convert of you. >:D**

“Well, don’t tell me you’ve never considered it.” Yondu mutely shakes his head. “You haven’t? Dude. If I could move some fancy metal stick with my mind, that’d be the first thing I tried.”

He doesn’t move the arrow with his mind. Neither does he move it with his whistle – that only provides the directional and velocity commands. Explaining this to Peter will steer them away from the subject at hand, but not indefinitely. They’re bound to cycle back to it. And – well. Yondu’s always been a ‘rip-the-bandage-off-quick’ kinda guy. Best put this dumb idea out of Quill’s head before the brat breaks out the puppy-dog eyes.

“Y’know,” he says, slinging one leg over the arm of his pilot’s chair. The cockpit glass is blacked-out, opaque and murky, and the hermetic seal means that when the doors are locked, none of the workers milling over this backwater dockyard will know what’s happening on the inside. That being: a disgraced and banished Ravager captain, prepping himself for a bout of phonesex with a dumb Terran he should’ve eaten decades ago. “When ya suggested this ‘long distance’ crap, I figured it’d be you an’ me jackin’ off on camera. Not you tryin’ ta convince me to stick my arrow where the sun don’t shine.”

Peter blinks. “To be perfectly honest, I didn’t think you’d need this much convincing.” He’s pretty as ever, even through the distorted lens of the cockpit camera. Fluff on his chin and fire in his eyes. Stupid sexy Terran.

Yondu pops his belt. Drags the long zipper joining the front of his pants to the back all the way under his ass, the two halves sliding apart so bare skin tacks to the leather seat cushion. “Where’s yer Guardians at then, boy?”

“None of your business.” A pause. Yondu crooks an eyebrow, and Peter huffs a sigh. “Okay. They’re asleep in the dorm. I’ve locked the cockpit and plugged my headphones in, so you can be as noisy as you like.” He raps them to demonstrate. Funny how there was a time, as the smoke on Xandar cleared, when Yondu thought he’d never lay eyes on that stupid Terran musicbox ever again. Funnier that he’d been upset about it.

“Don’t you go blastin’ none of your mood-music,” he warns, scooting his foot along the chairarm. “I hear one damn ‘ooga-chaka’ and the nookie-nookie’s off.” The inbuilt console controls creak under thick bootsoles, but no alarms start shrieking and nothing explodes. Yondu’s not dumb enough to leave his ship active. Last thing he wants is to accidentally suck a dockworker into the turbo boosters and face charges of gross negligence – especially as that’d tip his old crew off that he’s still alive. That’s something Yondu wants to keep on the down-low, until he’s ready to share his miraculous resurrection with the a-holes who betrayed him. One a-hole in particular.

But thinking about Kraglin while sleeping with Peter – even if he and Peter are removed from each other by several parsecs – ain’t fair on the brat. Hadn’t Quill said that he didn’t wanna be a rebound? Yondu points warningly when the boy grabs his Walkman. But Quill, rolling his eyes, only unclips it from the earphones and sets it out of reach on the far side of the dashboard.

“There,” he says. “Full amnesty.”

“I’d haveta lay down my weapon for that,” Yondu reminds him. He strokes the arrow's fletching. The carved feathers are far neater and more regular than anything he’d whittled with the crude tools of the Alpha Centauri province where he’d been raised. Makes his arrow fly smooth and true – but having kidnapped a craftsman to do the work for him somehow makes it lose its charm. Arrow’s a part of him, like it is for any Centaurian. But it was chiselled out of a yaka-ore seam by a mining drill rather than by hand, and Yondu’d neglected to inscribe any of the usual dedications to Anthos along its length. After all, Yondu hasn’t prayed to the Gods since he was an idiot hick kid who deserved all the response he got – absolute zilch.

That means that technically, it ain’t sacrilegious to fuck himself on it. Right?

Peter leers. “I’d rather you didn’t. Now, c’mon. I wanna see it slide in and out that cute blue ass of yours.”

“Ya think my ass is cute?”

“I think it’d be a lot cuter impaled on your arrow.” Yondu doesn’t appreciate Quill’s choice of verb. He entertains the thought, just briefly, that this is all a very complex assassination job. Then remembers that Quill struggles to come up with 12% of a plan at the best of times.

A galactically-proclaimed hero he might be, but Quill remains Ravager at heart. There’s a darkness there, like there’s darkness in the green chick and the fuzzy critter and the massive guy with pectorals that look like they could operate as a nutcracker if you used his burly arm as a crank. Peter’s lil’ bonsai-tree is the only one of his crew who lacks those shadows around his edges. Yondu hopes he stays that way. The galaxy’s grimy enough as-is – it don’t need no more innocents being traumatized. Of course, having traumatized the innocence out of the man in front of him, Yondu ought to take responsibility. 

“Y’know the whole point of arrows is they’re sharp?” he says, fishing the slim instrument from its sheathe and waggling it at the monitor. “I ram this up my ass, I’mma bleed out.”

“You’d better be gentle then, hadn’t you?” There’s no winning with him. Never was. Yondu, who taught, bullied, and very occasionally beat that intransigence into Quill, now finds himself wishing he hadn’t expended so much effort on toughening the kid up. He sighs, like he’s doing him a massive favor – which he is; no way would he even _contemplate_ this if he was on his lonesome. 

“Take yer damn kit off then. I ain’t makin’ no fool of myself unless you give me a show of yer own.”

Peter grins, shamelessly eager. He wrestles his jacket from his broad shoulders and flings it somewhere behind. His t-shirt rides up his belly, revealing a spruce of gingery hair. His cock’s harder than Yondu’s, when he fishes it out – but then again, he’s not the one about to tempt internal haemorrhage with his own damn weapon. Plus, he’s not sporting a painful ring of bruises from an incident involving a slave auction and a cockring, and he’s about twenty years Yondu’s junior (shut up). No wonder his stiffie’s like a goddam anti-aircraft missile launcher.

Yondu takes the opportunity to look his boy over. Peter’s grown well. His prick’s long and tapered, nothing too daunting around the head but widening to almost double the girth at the base. It’s a mighty fine piece; Yondu’s confident enough in his own equipment to admit it. Shame Peter’s landed a job in a star-system on the other side of the quadrant. Otherwise Yondu’d be bouncing on it right about now – rather than squinting at his arrow sideways, trying to fathom the logistics.

“Alrighty,” he breathes. Laces the word with enough whistle to make his arrow jitter against his fingertips – and oh, now he’s a little more amenable to the concept, imagining how that vibration will feel inside him isn’t a total turn-off. “Les get this show on the road. Boy – why don’t’chu give that pretty cock a tug?”

Peter beats him to it. He fists his prick, slow and lazy as a cat plucking a carpet. His half-lidded eyes throw back the reflection of the star his precious _Milano_ orbits. “Y’know?” he murmurs, tipping back so the camera catches the first glints of precum, teased from his plum-purple cockhead. “There’s an outlaw, back on my planet. Name’s Robin Hood. Legend says, he could hit any target with his bow and arrow.”

 _Terra ain’t yer planet, boy._ Yondu doesn’t voice that thought. With his face half-in-shadow Quill looks fey and weird, inhuman – but then again, he was never human to start with. Once upon a time Yondu was the only one who knew that. It ain’t such a big secret anymore, and there’s no real need to keep it hush-hush – but Yondu still feels oddly possessive over the details of Peter’s heritage. Quill has yet to press him for information, and Yondu wouldn’t tell if he did. Yet ever since he saw his boy holding the Stone, eyes as black as the deepest, coldest chasms of space; the voids between galaxies that are lit only by the occasional star that’s drifted away from the galactic core to die; Yondu’s wanted Peter Quill. He wants Peter Quill, Starlord, in a way he never allowed himself to want Peter Quill, Crummy Little Ravager Mascot. It’s visceral and heady and so potent he would murder for it. He’s already giddy on the power of having raised this half-breed, impossible creature, but now he wants to lower himself onto Quill's blunt pink cock and share for just a moment in that thrumming, heady sense of potential, which clings to Quill like oil to skin.

This is the next best thing.

Lube’s on the console, besides the new dashboard ornament he’s been fashioning out of a pair of glossy black spider-mandibles. It’s bog-standard stuff, cheapest he could find. Smells of nothing in particular. But it does what it says on the tin. Peter frowns when Yondu coats two fingers and guides them to his crease.

“Won’t need much stretching,” he observes. “Your arrow’s mighty skinny.” He’s right, but Yondu would rather not risk perforating anything. He dabbles the lube everywhere he can reach, teasing apart the pinch of his pucker, getting himself wet as a woman. The leg thrown over the chairarm clenches as he agitates all those prickly little nerve endings. His feet flex in their boots, toes curling, and when Yondu bites his lip as he breaches, he notices Peter doing the same. The boy gnaws his petal-pink underlip with incisors whiter than any self-respecting Ravager’s. His face is shiny and flushed; fuchsia blots the freckles that sprinkle his turned-up nose.

It’s been a long time since Yondu was anything approaching a virgin. Yet this is his first time taking something that ain’t remotely cock-shaped – unless you count that fling with the A’askavarian, back when he was a Ravager rookie with aspirations bigger than he was. He keeps his eyes on Peter as he lubes up the arrow. No more talk – just the rumbling huff of Peter’s breath as he drags loose skin up and down his prick. Yondu’s whistle is an undertone; if he had his engines purring it’d be inaudible. It keeps his arrow aquiver, humming with energy. A radiation-red wisp swirls along its length. He knows his implant and eyes are glowing too. Peter’s image in the viewscreen is tinted ruby, and the supple, snakelike blue skin of Yondu’s crotch glosses purple.

He keeps one finger inside, stirring sloppily. Skin on lube on skin. Kraglin always liked how soft and tight he was back here, internal muscles clamping instinctively onto anything that penetrates. But now that something is going to be his arrow, Yondu’s a lil’ nervous he’ll shred himself in the process. “Okay,” he husks, guiding the arrow to the crux of his spread, leatherclad thighs. He’s not trembling, he’s sure of it – but he hesitates before pushing the loose sides of the zipper away from his seeping hole.

“No hands,” says Peter. Yondu squints at him.

“Uh, when you’re the one taking it up the ass, you can give the orders.”

“Isn’t it usually the other way around?”

“Not when yer in bed with me, boy.” Yondu smirks, wide and ugly, and slouches lower in his seat. He props one foot on each chair arm, like he’s in stirrups – then pointedly interlaces his fingers behind the back of his head. “But just this once, I figure you can take the lead.”

“So generous,” Peter says. The flipped bird makes him grin. Yondu relaxes into the sling-backed chair, boots skidding along the consoles, squashing buttons and pushing joysticks to the side. He whistles the arrow to hover an inch from penetration, letting Peter see its entire gilded length. Then, hole clenching in anticipation, heightens his pitch.

Frigid metal nudges his perineum. Aim’s off. Shivering, he adjusts the tone until the tip finds a little give. He doesn’t realize his eyes have drifted shut until Peter gasps, camera mic crackling.

“Oh God… If you could see yourself…”

“Don’t need to.” Yondu pants as the shaft twizzles its first inch inside. “M’pretty as an angel, remember?” Fuck. He’s so wet; the puncture is effortless. The shaft is slim, untextured, cold, and slimy with lube. Yondu’d be yawning if he weren’t so intimately aware of what it is that’s slipping into his body: stiff and unforgiving, straight as a ramrod, molding his soft innards to its shape. He whistles again, making it swivel like a boring drill. Peter said no hands. But he doesn’t quibble when Yondu grabs each asscheek and pulls apart, hole flexing out of itself in a shiny navy rosette, while the arrow burrows in like he’s striking a bullseye in slow-motion. It’s ridiculously intense: faint licks of crimson energy snap and spark, the arrow a metal conduit that feeds current directly to his nerves.

“Am I like your Robin Hood now?” he gasps.

“Well, you’ve got the ‘stealing from the rich’ part down.”

Yondu flutters his tongue behind his teeth, making the whistle ripple and the arrow buzz. He groans, head falling to one side, cheek smushed against his shoulder. Peter can’t see what the arrowhead’s doing: churning Yondu’s channel, forever a too-sharp note away from piercing. But he can see the end waggling about, and watch Yondu's expression fluctuate as the shaft slips another centimeter in. He’s beating himself off faster than ever. He inhales in ragged shudders and pushes into his tight-closed fist, milking precum from his tip. Yondu, running a cracked dirty nail up and down his own prick, watches Peter watch him and lets his smug grin spill across his face.

“What you laughing at, old man?” Peter’s words are interspersed with heavy breaths. He sounds accusative, as if he expects the answer to be ' _you_ '. Yondu reassures him as he bears down, taking the arrow deep until the head pricks his inner walls.

“Aw, nothin’. Just thinkin’ how flatterin’ this is. You choose watchin’ me over piratin’ Xandarian pornos. And I know ya could get any girl you wanted.”

Peter’s blushing again. Yondu’s sure of it, even if the poor lighting makes it impossible to say for certain. “I’ve seen them all before anyway,” he says. He speaks too fast and too flippant, synchronized to the fast-paced jerk of his hand. “And as for the girls… Gamora said no. So here we are. Coupla sorry a-holes. Both each other’s second choices.”

Yondu doesn’t call him out on the lies. “Kraglin never got me to sit on my own damn arrow,” he says instead. That makes Peter perk.

“So I win on inventiveness?” Yondu would say it ain’t a competition – but they’re Ravagers (ex-Ravagers). _Everything’s_ a competition. Rather than talking, he twizzles the arrow again. It’s too straight to press directly on his prostate, and attempting to change the angle could result in it drilling its own exit hole. But if he alters the timbre of his whistle, lets a little gruffness creep in…

Electricity sparks. The red glow intensifies. When Yondu tugs up his shirt and cranes over his chest, he can see the arrow through his abdomen. It’s as incredible as it is creepy. Brightness floods him from the inside, his copper-blue skin turning translucent, as if he’s sitting on a floodlight. His organs hang like mines in an ocean, and everything pulses and throbs in time with the pound in his chest.

Yondu’s whistle stutters. His legs twitch and his glowing innards clench and he cums in a steaming gush, painting his backlit belly in white.

“Well,” says Peter as the arrow fades. Yondu’s skin returns to its usual matt blue, albeit drizzled with creamy streaks, and he lets the shirt drop over his heaving, sticky chest. “That was exciting. You looked like one of them bioluminescent deep-sea slugs.”

Yondu sinks boneless on the chair. He’s breathing hard. The cooling cum collects in the wrinkles of his shirt and the creases of his pouch. He’s crunched over himself, arrow still protruding from between his spread legs, and he can’t gather the coherence to whistle it free. He just hopes his writhing hasn’t hooked the barbed head on his intestines. “You sure know how to sweet-talk a guy, Quill.”

“Hm.” Quill hastens after his own release, fucking his fist as Yondu struggles to convince his tired, aching legs to close. “C’mon, captain. Keep them wide for me. That’s a mighty nice visual.”

“Yeah, won’t be so nice when I’m all cramped up tomorrow. Ain’t as young as I used to be, Quill.” Pause. "And ain't your captain neither."

“Neither of us will ever be this young again,” says Quill philosophically, working his pants down muscular thighs to release his balls for the fondling. “So I say we make the most of it while it lasts.”

Yondu can’t argue with that. Sighing, he lounges back, guts twinging as they rearrange around the arrowhead. “You an’ me against the galaxy, Quill,” he says. Glances up to check Quill’s reaction. “Just like old times, yeah?”

Quill’s smiling. His eyes are soft and sentimental, nothing like the cold-forged creature that had wielded the Infinity Stone on the Xandarian battlefield, the one Yondu's been lusting after ever since. But, Yondu discovers, the sappy expression suits him.

He keeps himself spread until Quill comes, tells him what a good boy he’s been – Peter's afterglow rapidly diminishes, replaced by cringes – and sets to pulling out the arrow. No need to worry about scrubbing it. A good blast of radiation will have it clean. Heck, Yondu’s probably irradiated his gut flora to death, and doused his lower body in high above his species’ recommended dosage. But he’ll worry about prostate cancer when it puts him in his grave, and not a moment before.

The extraction is surprisingly hard work. His ass grips the narrow rod like it doesn’t want to let go, and Yondu’s grip keeps slipping in the lube. “Don’t'chu fuckin’ watch,” he growls at Quill, after his hands have skidded for the third time and the arrow’s no closer to release. “Or I’ll whistle it through yer head next time I see ya.”

“Turn the camera off then,” comes Quill’s snide response. So, after exchanging a hearty pair of middle fingers, Yondu does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Leave me comments; I adore them.**
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> Merry Quilldumas!
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> ****


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **More porny filth. I've given up on the chapter count: it'll keep growing so long as I keep getting prompts. ;)**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This one is also the fault of bbb35/V-bird. And me, for writing the damn thing. Here I am, taking some responsibility for once. I know. I'm amazed too.**

“Hey Quill. Where you goin’?”

It’s the question he’s been dreading. Quill, one boot levitating above the ridged gangplank that has already disgorged two of the five Guardians onto the bustling port, glances at Rocket. The little guy – second-littlest, now; Groot is nestled on his shoulder, roots wound into Rocket’s whiskers – is fiddling with something disconcertingly bomblike. He doesn’t appear to be paying attention. But his ears have swiveled, tufty tips tracking Peter’s movements.

Rocket’s suspicious. They all are. Except Gamora, who gave Quill an entirely too-knowing look when he suggested this leisure-trip to an Empire Unaffiliated trading outpost. An Empire Unaffiliated trading outpost which, unbeknownst to the rest of the Guardians, an ex-Ravager Admiral is currently calling ‘home’.

Yondu bounces around a lot nowadays. He’s lost the _Eclector,_ which was as stable a home base as any Ravager could hope for – now in the hands of Taserface and Kraglin (who to the outside world is Yondu’s treacherous first mate, but to Yondu is so much more). Last time Peter heard from him, after that incredible night where he’d convinced him to enact a scene from one of Peter’s filthiest fantasies, he’d been on Knowhere, laying low. Thinking of the infamously noisy Ravager captain skulking through the shadows would be too bizarre for belief, had Peter not accompanied Yondu on a number of stealth operations throughout his youth. Yondu’s more than capable of pushing aside the boisterous act, if it’ll get him what he wants.

What that is, Peter has yet to discover. He’s sure Yondu’s plotting something. A guy like him doesn’t take being ousted, disarmed, and sold as a slave lightly. He’ll be planning revenge on Kraglin and Taserface and all their cronies, and unless Peter finds him and distracts him, he might actually follow through.

Not that Peter  _cares_ about the Ravager mutineers. Sure, he and Kraglin shared a few awkward moments that bordered affectionate, but he’d always been more of a lateral figure in Peter’s life, compared to Yondu’s full-frontal fatherly assault. Although… It’s really not healthy to keep thinking of Yondu like that. When Peter was a buck-toothed eight year old brat fresh to the stars, he’d been desperate for a mentor. Missing his mom and his grandpa and the father he’d never met, it was all-too-easy to let Yondu fall into that role. But their relationship soon became strained. As Peter grew, they had no choice but to adapt. Now that bond has transmuted into something similar, yet different – all the same components arrayed in a different order, which alters their meaning irrevocably. Peter can’t pinpoint the catalyst. Was it him leaving that made Yondu stop seeing him as a boy that needed protection, or an asset that needed training? Was it the trolldoll prank? Or was it the power of the Infinity Stone, gleaming through Peter’s cupped fingers, much like the light from Yondu’s arrow had shone through his stomach when Peter had him fuck himself on it a week ago?

“Oh, just gonna see what sorta girls this station has,” he says breezily. Rocket pulls a face and groans, but doesn’t question him. That’s one bonus of a Ravager upbringing – Peter always tells believable lies.

 

* * *

 

The bar is dingy and dark, low-slung ceilings ridged with copper pipes, twisted through with crusty blue oxide. The booths are crammed with every imaginable subspecies of alien life. It’s a teeming soup: there’s bipedals and tentacular anthropods; molluscs and feathered avian species; even the occasional mod addict, whose metal interpolations are grafted in ugly trellises through their flesh. Flasks of every inhibition-reducing substance known to the galaxy are knocked back under the hazy red lights, and there’s a pit at the room’s center – currently empty, but who knows for how long – which looks deep enough to contain a brawl.

It smells of booze and body-odor. _Home sweet home,_ Peter thinks.

He steps up to the counter, slapping a dry patch by Yondu’s elbow to catch the barkeep’s attention. “Two Swizzlers,” he orders. He smiles at Yondu’s snort, just audible over the background throb of the music. “Long time no see, Udonta.”

“We’re usin’ last names now, Quill?”

“Only for as long as it takes me to get into your pants.” The bartender, not looking at either of them, slams down the requested pots of steaming gold liquid, alongside two stirrable honey shots. He takes Peter’s credits with a grunt. Peter pockets the honey before Yondu can tip his into the drink, none-too-subtly slanting his eyes at the surrounding patrons, who slurp, suck, glug, and absorb their beverages via osteoporosis. “Careful when you knock it back. Don’t want to set off any alarm bells with your ugly mug.”

Yondu shrugs, and pins his hood in place before draining the Swizzler. Sans-sweetener, the taste of ethanol must be near-overpowering. Yondu pulls a face but doesn’t complain. “You're too nervy, boy. Don’tchu know I got my arrow? If anythin’ goes down, we fight our way out.”

Yondu’s in a hooded pullover, made from a shapeless black material that resembles suede. It’s baggy, a few sizes too big – Yondu’s replaced some of the weight he lost in the slave stables, but the oversized top makes him look downright lean. It does have its uses though. Before taking his next draft, Yondu whistles under his breath, tilting his glass to his lips to disguise the origin of the sound. There’s a responding shiver from his spine. He must have the arrow strapped flat to it. The soft glow percolates the fabric, not nearly as bright as when it burrowed into Yondu’s ass the week before. But it’s enough to spark the memory.

Peter flattens his palm over the luminescent patch. He feels the tense judder of an arrow wanting to fly, compounded on top of the seeping heat of Yondu’s skin, the expansion and contraction of his ribs, and the way his ex-captain leans into the touch.

“C’mon boss,” he purrs. The outdated honorific is for the sole purpose of making Yondu smirk. “Let’s get you to a bedroom. This time, I wanna do this properly.”

 

* * *

 

He can’t take him to the _Milano._ Too many awkward questions, too many embarrassing confrontations. It’s a conversation Peter will have to eventually face – but he doesn’t have to yet, and so he’ll banish it from his mind until it’s unavoidable. Luckily there’s plenty of cheap overnight stops around this neck of the galactic woods: places that don’t ask for facial identification at the front desk. They’re a little dingy, a little dilapidated. But they provide a roof over their heads and four walls, and the bed doesn’t sink too deeply when Peter throws himself onto it.

He rolls onto his side, careful not to squish the honey pouches in his pocket, and pats the space besides him. “Don’t be shy. Let’s get to it – I’m due back on ship before nightfall.” Or at least, what passes for nightfall on this dingy rock – when the lamps are dulled until only the glitching neon signs show up against the matte black backdrop of empty space.

Yondu levels him a wicked look. “When’ve I ever been _shy?_ ” he asks, pulling his hoodie over his head. He faces away from Peter, and sure enough – there’s the arrow: tight to his spine, a line of jittering gold that bisects his scarred blue back.

Peter wiggles happily out of his own jacket and pants. He folds them over the headboard while Yondu dumps his clothes in a crumpled pile. He’s more careless with his current garb than he ever was with his reds. Peter can’t help but wonder where Yondu’s signature longcoat wound up, the one that’d been worn for so long it had turned soft as shammy-leather and crackly around the creases at the elbows, which smelt of engine grease and exhaust fumes and sweat even after a rigorous steaming. It’s probably been subsumed into the Ravager recycling pot. There’s no sanctity for possessions among pirates. If a man is dead or banished, everything he owns belongs to the collective. It’ll be torn apart and restitched; a little bit of the legendary Yondu Udonta sewn onto a boot here, a jacket there, a belt and a pants pocket.

“Do you miss it?” he asks as he unrasps his fly. Yondu doesn’t need to make him elaborate.

“Nah,” he lies, unclipping the arrow harness. He lets it slither off as he strolls to Peter, straddling the big pink Terran he used to call his own. “Not one bit.”

 

* * *

                                

The wet slap of Peter’s cock into Yondu, then out of him, then into him again.

The harsh punctuation of their gasps.

The way Peter makes keening sounds through his teeth, while Yondu growls and rams himself backwards as if he’s self-pleasuring, using Peter as a toy even as Peter grabs his arms and twists them up behind his blue back, forcing Yondu to rest on his chest and knees as Peter bottoms out in a loud vulgar squelch.

“Good boy,” he hisses – to get him back for last time. Yondu snorts against the pillowcase he’s gnawing.

“Yer gonna have to do better than that if ya wanna leave a lasting impression, brat…”

It’s the sort of taunt Peter’s been waiting for. Because of course Yondu would make this a challenge – whether it’s over lasting time or the potency of their orgasms, everything about this is competitive. It’s who Yondu is. He teases, he jeers, and he’s always one-hundred percent confident that he can chew what he’s bitten off.

Last time he’d guessed wrong, he’d been sold into slavery. This time, Peter hopes, will be far more pleasurable.

He leans over Yondu, dragging his ass tight to his pelvis, fucking him like a dog. His nails slice crescents into firm blue cheeks. Yondu’s spine is forced into a painful curve; he spits angry clicks as Peter reaches for his jacket, past Yondu’s head. But when Peter places his hand over his shoulderblade, the grounding weight calms him – as does the cock that splits him to the core, buried so deep inside that Peter’s pulse must be reverberating against Yondu’s intestines. By the time Peter’s located what he’s looking for, Yondu’s breathing in measured gulps, navy eyelashes shut and jaw ticking from how tight he’s clenched it.

Peter doesn’t let him see his present. It’s deposited on the rumpled sheets behind them, well beyond Yondu’s field of vision.

He starts moving again, pile-driving down rather than forwards, keeping Yondu’s arms crooked awkwardly at the elbow and folded over his back. His ex-captain’s shoulders bunch, showing where thick bands of muscle once sat, and will sit again. Peter stoops to drop a kiss: there at the apex of his neck, where cervical vertebrae joins to spinal. Their sweat mingles, turning the meet of pink and blue flesh to a seal-like skid.

By the time Peter cums, collapsing over Yondu and biting one of his earrings to keep from shouting, Yondu’s twitching and desperate, rutting the sheets for friction. His snide sideways smirk – _outlasted ya, boyo_ – devolves into frustration when, rather than grinding his softening cock over his prostate until he finds completion, Peter pulls out and scoots down.

“Quill –“

“Thought we were past last names,” Peter pants. Then he peels the lid of the honey pot, grabs Yondu’s hips, tilts his ass skywards and pours the contents into his sloppy navy gape of a hole.

Yondu frowns. His rim twitches, stretched and smeared with lube. “The fuck didya just… Petey…”

“That’s more like it. Love it when you call me that…” Yondu keeps his hands crossed behind his back, even without the reminder of Peter’s over the top of them. Brushing off the urge to bestow another unappreciated ‘Good boy!’, Peter places a thumb on each side of his rim and _stretches_ , coaxing the supple flesh into compliance. He waits until the honey’s drained deep, coating Yondu’s channel in runny syrup. Then breathes over him, agitating all those overtaxed little nerve endings.

Yondu _snarls._ But only briefly. Then he melts, slack against the messed bedsheets. The drip of molten, viscous honey must be indistinguishable from the cum Peter’s already planted inside him. Drool joins the chewed holes in his pillow case. When Peter stops teasing him with long, warm exhales, and dabbles the soft pad of his tongue to taste the honey and the lube and the taut blue flesh, he wins a whimper.

That sound’s rare, and coveted because of it. Peter chases it. He flattens his tongue, lapping vertically until his hole is soft and sopping, clingy strings of spit fastening it to Peter’s lips. Then he stiffens to a point and wriggles on inside.

Yondu’s ‘hurry it up’ growl catches in his chest. He grinds on Peter’s face, all but smothering him, and each gouge of Peter’s tongue results in a whole-body start. “F-flark, by the stars boy, you’re good at this…”

Peter catches Yondu around the thighs, stopping the worst of his wriggles. He can’t reply, not when he’s nearly tonsil-deep inside him. But he turns his answer into a hum, fluttering his tongue-tip along textured internal muscle, chasing the sweetness and the underlying salt. He glides around Yondu’s channel like it’s spun from damp silk. Peter can feel him clamping – horny, juddery spasms that would’ve hurt his prick but which his tongue is too small and slippery to catch. Yondu can’t clench properly, can’t bear down, can’t wrangle any more of that infuriatingly good _sensation._  

 “Dammit, boy…”

Peter pulls back. His tongue disengages with a squish. “What’s that, old man? Getting desperate?” The wetness leaking onto the mattress says yes. Peter sticks a wondering hand between Yondu’s legs, catching a pearly drop of pre-cum before it can join the accumulating puddle. “Fuck. Didn’t think you had this much left in you.”

“F-fuck off, I ain’t that dried-up…”

Smirking, Peter returns the middle finger Yondu shoots him, and returns to the task at hand. It takes five more licks and a quick jerk to have him spilling, and Peter’s tempted to make a tootsie-pop joke – but one look at Yondu’s blissed-out, dopy expression, half-smushed against the pillow, convinces Peter it’s in his best interests to savor this while it lasts.

Although with that being said, his fun’s not over yet.

Yondu’s attempt to go boneless is prevented as Peter’s nails dig into his hipbones from behind. “What? Don’t tell me you want to go another round – fuck! That’s… that’s real sensitive right now, Petey… Fuck!”

Yondu donkey-kicks as Peter’s tongue slithers into him again. But Peter’s got his legs immobilized, thighs in a bear-hug. When Yondu pushes off the mattress, bare shoulders tensing and veins standing out in his neck, Peter proves he can restrain his legs one-armed and uses the other hand to deliver a cheerful smack to the back of Yondu’s ribcage, forcing him face-down once more. “I don’t wanna deal with that end of you.” Then, when he spots Yondu’s pursing lips: “C’mon, sir. Just take what I give. Accept it – accept _me._ You’ll love what I do to you, I promise. You just gotta trust a bit.”

“Yeah, last time ya tried that romancing shtick I got an arrow wedged up my ass. I ain’t fallin’ for yer nice-boy-next-door routine no more!"

But when his legs scooch out it’s not to strain against Peter’s hold. Still muttering under his breath, threats and ‘dumb Terrans’ and blasphemies all bundled into one, Yondu opens himself to the probe of that sinful tongue.

He must be oversensitized to the point of aching. Once sure Yondu’s not gonna try any more hijinks, Peter delves between Yondu’s thighs, toying with his sticky navy cock, his own still tender from sawing into and out of the hole that now rests against his lips. He keeps Yondu on the edge of pleasure-pain, testing his rim with rough licks and dragging his stubbled jaw across his perineum. Yondu’s responses – shuddering, hissing, clawing at his pillow – are all the more delicious because Peter knows how hard his ex-captain is struggling to hide them.

Peter’s doing this because he wants to show Yondu a good time – plus a thrill of competitive glee lances through him at the thought that Kraglin would never dare to sit his boss on his arrow, lick honey from his ass, do all the other wicked and depraved things that are stewing in Peter's mind. But he’s also enjoying the visual. Watching his once-captain tremble and lose the battle against crying out when Peter adds fingers to the mix (squeezing his battered prostate until the abuse is simply too much to bear, then flexing Yondu wide and lapping slickly in between) would be orgasm-worthy of itself. Peter’s prick makes a second, valiant lurch towards stiffness. 

He doesn’t indulge it though. Once he’s milked a second feeble trickle of jizz from Yondu’s soft cock, and the man’s struggling to stifle his yelps, Peter draws back, scouring the image into his mind’s eye. “Think I got your best angle here,” he murmurs, snapping the juicy saliva-strands that join his mouth to the wet ravished hole. “Can I take a pic? One for the records?” 

“Don’… Don’ you fuckin’ dare…”

Peter nods. Maybe next time. Rather than retrieving his data-pad with its internal camera from the pocket of his pants, he gently maneuvers Yondu until he can curl up on his side. Old man's back must be stiff. He’s spent a good portion of the night arching, either into the barrage of Peter’s thrusts or under the torturous plunge of his tongue. But he doesn’t complain, arranging himself in a loose ball and yawning so light glints from filed-sharp teeth.

And maybe, just maybe, Peter doesn’t have to be on his ship until morning after all. His new crew aren’t Ravagers. They won’t blast off and leave him to fend for himself, hitchhiking and thumbing lifts where he can, stowing away and stealing ships where he can’t. As far as _family_ goes, they’re a helluva lot better than Yondu ever was.

Which is why, Peter thinks, as he scoots up behind Yondu and drapes a heavy arm over him, it’s damn good he doesn’t see this ugly old pirate as _family_ anymore.

“Hey boy,” Yondu croaks. His eyes are shut, face as relaxed as Peter’s ever seen it. Peter wriggles up on one elbow so his breath brushes the crows’ feet that crease his grizzly cheeks, in between the navy stubble.

“What?”

“You wanna spoon, you can be the lil’ one. Ain’t having you near my ass until I can take a shit without being reminded of ya.”

“Wow, Yondu. That’s real sweet.”

 Yondu sticks out his tongue, still not looking at him. So it’s only natural that Peter roll over him, crushing him into the mattress and answering all vocal complaints with reminders that Yondu was the one to want him on his other side. Once he gets there, he chases that tongue back into Yondu’s mouth with his own, saturating his tastebuds with sour honey. Yondu’s suffered worse. He groans in the back of his throat, tipping his head into the cup of Peter’s palm and letting him replay his rimming session.

The slow lazy twining of their tongues dictates more about their current dynamic than words ever could. Peter moves in powerful strokes more eager than they’re coordinated, which are backed by a boundless energy that Yondu struggles to match. Eventually he falls away. Shoves at Peter’s bulky shoulder until he rolls, presenting Yondu with his back.

“Go to sleep, kiddo. I’ll still be here in the morning.”

“Don’t call me kiddo.”

“Right, boy.”

“Don’t call me that either.”

“Thought ya didn’t like last names, Quill?”

“Too business-like.” Peter cracks a yawn. “Just… just call me ‘Peter’, when we’re like this. Or ‘Petey’. You can do that, right?”

There’s no answer. His spine is sandwiched to the smooth, lizardlike skin of his ex-captain’s chest, and he’s intimately aware of their body-temperature difference: Yondu ever a degree cooler, Peter warmer. But he’s comfortable. He’s safe, and if he licks his lips, they’re still sweet.

There’s one honeypot left in Peter’s jacket pocket. Nothing starts the day better than a breakfast muffin – and Peter’s favorite flavor has always been blueberry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hope y'all enjoyed the smut. Feel free to dump more Quilldu prompts here - just be aware that I'm gonna make the majority bottom!Yondu, because I remain pretty much the only person in this gosh darn fandom who writes it. And I really don't like bottom!Peter so... :shrugs:**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **More shameless kink. Didn't turn out exactly how I wanted, but damn am I pleased with the results.**

“Hey, Petey.” No response. Yondu flicks his nose. “Petey?” Still nothing. Yondu, yawning, proceeds to flick both ears, alternating from one to the other until they’re both fluorescent pink. There. Something for Peter to remember him by. He hesitates a moment before clambering back onto the bed, hoodie filling out his sparse silhouette. Then comes to a decision and drops a quick peck on Peter’s prickly cheek.

He doesn’t meet stubble, but soft lips instead. They rove across his own, Peter tipping his head to achieve a squarer angle, then pushing his tongue into his mouth with all the finesse that’s usually associated with Terrans first thing in the morning. He tastes like halitosis, ass, and honey. Last two are his own fool fault, and Yondu figures the brat can’t do nothing about the first. He lets Peter lap his mouth for a solid minute, watching the revolving numbers in the chrono-hologram that projects from the wall above. Then draws back, resisting the clumsy hands that drag on his nape and the soft noises of protest.

He’s got shit to do. Mutineers to butcher. Can’t let some dumb Terran conquest get in the way – although Yondu’d be lying to himself if he pretended that Peter is anything so simple. He’s no Kraglin, that’s for sure. Right now, that’s in his favor – because the only way Yondu wants Kraglin is dead.

“Knew you’d try and kiss me,” Peter slurs as he watches Yondu scoot to the edge of the bed and cram his feet into boots. “Old sap.”

Yondu points at him warningly. “Don’t’chu fuckin’ dare. Was just gonna tell ya to sleep well when you started eating my damn face.”

Peter sniggers, rolling onto his back with hands clasped behind his head. “Sure you were.” He’s entirely comfortable in his nudity, broad and brawny and oh-so-pink, muscles still lax from sleep. The ginger-brown hair on his abdomen resettles as he breathes. Yondu only realizes he’s staring when Peter stretches, tossing him a raunchy wink. His half-chubbed morning cock bounces along his inseam, and he crooks up a thigh to give the hairy, heavy balls beneath a scratch. “Like what you see?”

Yondu shrugs, nodding to the clock. “I see an idjit Terran who’s gonna have to pay doubles on this room if he sleeps in past check-out.”

“Shit!” The next minute is frenzied: Peter stuffs his limbs into clothes and would’ve tugged his pants on backwards had Yondu not smacked him upside the head, shoved him to sit on the bed, dropped to his knees, hooked the garments off Peter’s feet, and spun them around for him.

“Still needin’ help to dress,” he mocks, resting one arm on Peter’s thigh and his chin on top. “You ever gonna grow out of this, Petey?” The leather’s cool, but the heat from Quill’s overactive Terran body has already begun to seep, and the muscle is like warm plasticine, molding to the angle of Yondu’s jawbone as he tips his head to look Peter in the eye. Their positions are obviously suggestive. Between Yondu’s brazen teasing and how good he looks on his knees, Peter must be longing to indulge. Yondu prevents him from surrendering to temptation, pushing to his feet and walking away. He slaps the hands that try to catch his hips, haul him back, keep him captive against that firm pink chest. “C’mon, Petey. Yer crew’ll be bustin’ down the walls any minute now.”

“You could come with us?”

Yondu belts a laugh. He doesn’t even give a proper reply. Just strides on out, fastening his belt as he goes, hood low over his face and red eyes shrouded in shadow, a single raised finger Peter’s only farewell.

 The door whooshes shut. Peter, growling, tosses his boot at it. “Why you always gotta walk away from me, man?”

 

* * *

 

The worst part, Peter thinks, is that he doesn’t even have anything to remind him of Yondu while he’s gone. Not even the trolldoll they used to pickpocket back and forth, in the days before a mysterious grey orb popped onto the Ravager radar. Sure, Yondu gave him his ship, and sure, Yondu taught him how to fly it – but Peter doesn’t want to relive those comfortable, well-worn memories of big blue hands guiding his. He wants to remember that night, a week ago now. Yondu’s hands hadn’t seemed nearly so big when Peter twisted them behind his back, held him pinned and arched and cussing with his honey-dripping ass hiked high in the air, like he was bowing to his primitive God…

“Peter,” snaps Gamora from the co-pilot chair. She wrenches her controls to one side, manually spinning them from the path of an asteroid when it becomes apparent that Peter is happy to smile at it dreamily until it bashes through their windscreen. “Please keep your mind on flying.”

“Yeah,” says Rocket. “You don’t have enough grey-matter to be multitasking. I’m kinda amazed you can talk and walk.” He laughs obnoxiously at his own jab.

“It’s not that funny,” Peter tries to say.

“Why would Peter not be able to talk and walk?” Drax asks. “Has he incurred brain damage? Perhaps we should take him to the nearest medicenter.”

Gamora fills him in: “Rocket was just being mean.”

“Was not!”

“Was too!” growls Peter.

“Was not! And what, you need greenie here to protect ya?”

Gamora’s fingers tighten around the controls. “I do no such thing,” she says stiffly.

“Uh-huh.” How Rocket manages to compress so much sarcastic disbelief into those two syllables, Peter will never guess. It’s a gift. “You two’ve seemed mighty cushy, recently. Ever since that job in the Halls of Kazadh-y-whatsit. Like something happened ya don’t wanna tell us…”

He trails off, fuzzy black bandit mask stretching suggestively. If he had eyebrows, they’d be waggling. Peter turns dusky red. He doesn’t look as Gamora as he replies – and tells the truth too, for once. “It wasn’t what you think. Nothing to do with me and her. No nookie-nookie, not between us two.”

“And now you sound like that blue a-hole,” Rocket crows. “No one says ‘nookie-nookie’, Quill. Not since the last astral-century. And then it was only high school students.”

Peter’s color waxes from crimson to neon. He concentrates on the starway ahead, sweaty grip skidding along the control column. A day ago, he’d been fucking Yondu. The week before, he’d sat on this chair and jerked one out, the camera turned on him while the projector regurgitated its three-dimensional rendition of Yondu: sprawled over his own captain’s throne, drilling his arrow between his legs with whistles that got breathier and breathier as he neared completion…

Gamora watches him out of the corner of her eye. Apparently, the rule about concentrating on the road doesn’t apply when your senses are enhanced by finely-tuned state-of-the-art cybernetics. Well, if she’s so confident in her piloting, she can take over. Peter jams the control rod in her direction, then slides in his chair until his chin brushes his chest. He wonders if he’ll sink through the cockpit floor if he wishes it hard enough.

“Holiday’s over,” he grumbles, popping his headphones on: a flimsy metal-and-orange-foam barrier between him and the galaxy at large. “ _Milano’s_ guzzling more fuel than we’re buying. Rocket, why don’t you trawl the Empires’ infonets, see if you can find us a job?”

Rocket grumbles and Drax pets Groot and Gamora waits until she’s sure Peter’s looking at her in the reflection before she rolls her eyes, the mirror-image peppered through with veins of far-off star clusters. Peter breathes through his nose and looks straight ahead. The tinny opening chords of _Moonage Daydream_ filter into his ears as if from far away. He tries to convince himself that he can carry on as normal. That everything’s gonna be fine. But half of him is off capering with a vengeful, wily grinning blue jackass, who’s doing who-knows-what who-knows-where. His team are right in front of him – all around him, in fact. But it’s Yondu Peter’s mind cycles back too. And Peter knows, with the sinking certainty of a man just learning introspection, that he’s not going to make it a week before he summons Yondu to him so he can sink his teeth into that addictive blue flesh once again.

…Addictive. Well, there’s one plausible explanation for all this. Unseen by all but Gamora, Peter’s fists clench, and he has to clip his Walkman to his belt before he cracks it.

 

* * *

 

“You’ve drugged me.”

Yondu, browsing trinkets at a friendly smalltown market stall, decides the heavily-breathing Terran clogging the end of the aisle is a good enough distraction, and starts to pocket his favorites. “The flark’re you talkin’ about, boy?”

There’s sweat dripping down Peter’s nape. He marches up to Yondu, grabs him by the collar, and _lifts_ until his boots are scraping the ground.

“Huh,” says Yondu. An inch from Peter’s snarl, his grin is disarmingly bright. “Ya look even bigger up close.”

“Terran growth spurts are remarkable,” growls Peter. “You should’ve stopped feeding me when you had the chance.” He gives Yondu a little shake. Baubles clatter from the lining of his coat like flakes in a snowglobe. His mirth twists into dismay.

“Aw Pete, c’mon! I wanted those.”

“Then you can pay for them like a law-abiding citizen. I’m a Guardian of the Galaxy, remember? Duty-bound to prevent crimes, save lives, blast bad guys to smithereens. Now answer the question. Did. You. Drug me.”

Yondu looks, for the first time since Peter heaved him off his feet, genuinely bewildered. “What?”

Peter’s sick of having to repeat himself. For a minute, he seriously considers socking him in the face. Then remembers that this is Yondu, and that his patience only extends so far – not very far at all, if we’re being honest. As tempting as it is, the rush of concaving his mentor’s nose doesn’t excuse the danger of releasing that arrow in a civilian market. Peter spots some family units from the corner of his eye. A few have stopped to stare; more hurry their children along, glancing back in fear. That fear’s not directed at Yondu. It’s directed at the guy who, according to the perspectives of most of these marketgoers, stormed up to an innocent shopper and hoisted him a half-foot skywards.

Peter wants to dig the remaining trinkets out of Yondu’s pouch. Wants to scan his face with a portable bounty-book and prove to them all that Yondu is nothing more than a scallywag, an a-hole with more kills under his belt than stolen baubles stuffed up his sleeves. He also kinda wants to ram his tongue in his mouth and turn this into an even less family-friendly scene.

“Dammit,” he growls, lowering Yondu to the floor. “Why you gotta be so… you? It’s infuriating.”

Yondu’s getting that blue tint to his face that impends angry whistles or belly-laughter. Peter doubts it’ll be the latter. “Yer the one that started hoistin’ me about in the middle of a public street,” he snaps, stooping to scoop up the glittering trinkets and deposit them into multitudinous hidden pockets that are stitched into the lining of his coat. “Right menace to the peace, you are. Perhaps a cop’ll show up and arrest you.”

“I _am_ the cop round these parts,” Peter says, chest puffing out. Yondu snorts. Peter deflates. “Yeah, that isn’t all that reassuring, is it?”

“Sir?” calls a sales girl who’s either brave, stupid, or both. “Sir, are you going to pay for those?”

Yondu ignores her. “Well Petey,” he says, dismissing annoyance in favor of a toothy smirk. “What’chu want with me?”

“That!” Peter jabs his finger into Yondu’s chest. “Stop acting like that! Stop being so… so _flirty!_ ”

Yondu looks surprised. Then abruptly, delighted. “Oho. Do I make you think dirty thoughts, Petey?”

Peter snorts, in what he hopes is a suitably dismissive manner. “Pf. No.”

“Mm-hm.” Those pink eyes are far, far too shrewd. Right now they’re puckish with mischief, and – confident he’s hidden from the crowd by Peter’s bulk – Yondu skates blue fingers over the bulge behind his Terran’s fly, giving him a brazen squeeze. “Coulda fooled me.”

“Aw, shaddup.”

Those fingers are still moving, plying more tingles from Peter’s fattening flesh. “I mean sure. This don’t mean nothing, right? Just skin and friction.”

“You got it. I came here to beat you up, not fuck you.”

Yondu skates Peter’s cockhead, where it’s trapped against his thigh. Damn, things are getting mighty tight down there. Peter needs to readjust, maybe slip a belt-notch to provide a bit more _give._ He needs to rip down his fly and stuff Yondu’s stupid, metal-toothed mouth here and now, before he can say another word…

Yondu looks up at Peter, wicked eyes hooded. His pupils are almost as wide as Peter’s own. “How’s that plan goin’ for ya, Petey?” he breathes.

 

* * *

 

Cut to twenty minutes later, and Yondu’s sat on Peter’s face.

He’s also, to Peter’s delight, whimpering. The guttural, desperate little sounds push from deep in his chest, and abort seconds before they become all-out whines. It’s rare, so fucking rare, to hear them. Each keen jolts straight to Peter’s cock. And dammit, but as much as he loves eating ass, he needs to be in Yondu, right now.

He pulls him down his body, tongue popping from his spit-softened hole with a wet slick noise. Yondu full-out moans at the loss. He doesn’t have time to complain though. Only gets out one breathy “boy –“ and a glare, sitting slumped on Peter’s chest and panting even though they’ve barely just begun. Then Peter slots his fingers inside him.

He shunts them deep, three at once. It’s tight and dry past where his tongue could reach, and definitely veering on painful. But Yondu’s doesn’t complain – just lifts his ass with a ragged gasp. His thigh trembles in Peter’s grip as he gouges him open, pumping his digits past his spit-slicked rim and splaying them every time they bury knuckle-deep in that tight textured heat.

He hasn’t taken his coat off, just his pants. Peter’s in a similar state of disarray, having wanted to skip to the fucking as soon as they barged into the hotel room. They’d had hands all over each other from the moment the elevator binged and they poured into the corridor. Peter’d almost lost patience halfway, pinning Yondu against the wall and kissing him messy and hard. But Yondu’s hand had clamped on his dick, the zipper biting enough to make Peter think twice about fishing it out and fucking him there. Whatever it is they have, whatever it is they’re doing together… It’s for behind closed doors. In public, they can fight, snarl, snap and wrestle. In private, those actions take on a different meaning.

In the present, swishing his longcoat to drape over Peter’s shins, Yondu reaches behind himself to pluck a solid handful of cock. He doesn’t let it enter him straight away, rubbing the dribbling head across his pucker. The fleshy tack of skin makes Peter’s pulse rev. As does the sensation; the pull and stretch of Yondu’s hole around his cockhead, never more than a centimeter allowed inside.

Peter flaps for the sideboard. “Lube, need lube…”

He thinks he’s slurring, bloodflow redirected south. Yondu doesn’t hold it against him. He looks a little fuck-drunk himself as he wobbles off Peter, cock swinging between his legs and the blue of the ocean over a trench. He helps himself to the open tub, and slaps a scoop onto Peter’s prick without bothering to warm it. Then he straddles him, facing forwards – an odd angle for anal, but they’ll manage – and shunts firmly down while Peter’s still twitching and spluttering from the temperature drop.

Oh. That’ll warm him up.

Yondu’s a furnace, opened only for Peter. His hands settle on a stocky blue waist, feeling where muscle and meat are rebuilding after his ordeal in the Halls. Yondu doesn’t slap him off. He’s too busy rocking his hips, fitting Peter tight and snug as if he were custom-made.

Peter’s cock stirs his channel, a thick fullness as delicious as it’s inescapable. He needs friction, needs more, needs that tight wet hole to drag over him like a bobbing, sucking mouth. But Yondu grins down at him, cheeky as an imp. He grinds in circles as unsatisfactory as they’re shallow. By the time his comm rings, Peter’s ready to beg.

Rocket.

Fuck.

His mind goes blank, jarred out of itself like he’s licked his finger and stuck it in a socket. What does he do? What does he _say?_

“Dammit Quill, I know you’re there!” The voice at the other end of the line is scratchy and irritated, portending explosion. “First you tell me to find a job, then you swan off on ‘reconnaissance’ and don’t make the rendezvous… And don’t even pretend you’re not fucking someone. I can see your flarkin’ heartrate, idiot. Lemme tell you, you’d better be running pretty flarking hard right now, else there’ll be hell to pay.”

Peter’s pulse is at levels that usually precede cardiac arrest, not orgasm. “Fuck,” he whimpers as Yondu flexes up, angling into a low squat. Once he’s puckering around the pinch behind Peter’s cockhead he slithers down again, watching Peter watch him.

Peter can’t concentrate on Rocket. Can’t focus on the panoply of insults that ricochet around the room, emanating from the comm-implant in his neck. All he sees, all he knows, is Yondu.

His prick is devoured by that greedy blue hole. Loose skin bunches along Peter’s length. He’s broad enough to push Yondu’s rim inwards when he bucks, seating himself root-deep, then pull it back in the opposite direction when gravity takes over and his hips collapse back to the mattress: a bulge that grows and recedes in time with the cadence of their sex. But on his back like this, finding the leverage to thrust is nigh impossible. Peter’s feet keep slipping on the silky sheets. He has no choice but to let Yondu control their pace – and as a result, it’s slow, grueling, torturous.

Flarking sadist.

Lube collects around Yondu’s rim, making the navy flesh look shiny and plastic. His smirk, in contrast, is sleazy as a pimp’s. He tugs his cock, timing it to his bounces. His ass rocks up and down Peter’s length, swiveling every time he hits that nadir and never letting more than half slither free. Leaning over Peter, he sandwiches his prick between their abdomens, pre-cum soaking Peter's shirt.

Peter’s balls drag on the sheets. They’re a dumbbell attached to his groin. But he manages to heave himself up on his elbows and look Yondu in the eye. He can smell it: pre-cum, bitterness, thick pubic musk. Sweat and salt and skin. Saliva too, when Yondu kisses him.

In his ear, Rocket’s voice drills like a tick. “Quill, you listening? If you’ve been honey-trapped again, don’t expect me to have no sympathy!” 

This ain’t no trap, and Yondu certainly ain’t no honey. Peter thrusts his tongue into his ex-captain’s mouth, desperate like he’s chasing something. Yondu sucks it briefly before pulling back. He makes his mark with a nip that will leave Peter’s underlip swollen for weeks.

“Go on,” croons the ugly blue incubus on his lap. He wriggles, ass rippling vice-tight and hotter than a star. Squelches echo around the inside of Peter’s head. Everything’s low and lewd and wet, from Yondu’s voice to the sucking, messy tack of lube-on-flesh. “Tell him. Tell him why you ain’t picking up.”

The comm’s internal, designed to read the vibration of Peter’s vocal cords. But Yondu’s so close, sour breath breaking over Peter’s jaw, that Rocket catches the timbre of his words even if he can’t understand them, or – heaven forbid – place the voice.

“You’re fucking a dude,” he crows. Then, loud enough to reach every occupant on board the _Milano_ (and probably some unfortunate dock workers too) “Hey! Get over and listen to this! Quill’s fucking a dude!”

Peter’s ears are scarlet. When he cranes down, he finds his chest in a similar state – what little he can see of it behind the popped collar of his jacket. His face must be just as lurid. Yondu’s certainly laughing like he’s an attraction at a freakshow.

To make matters worse, another voice joins Rocket's. “We should turn the comm off,” says Gamora. “Let him keep his secrets.”

Ugh god. She _knows._ Peter wants to curl up somewhere small and dark and scream – but before that, he needs to cum like an overtrained muscle needs stretching. He can’t call Yondu by his name. He can’t do much but bite his lips bloody to keep the groans inside as Yondu sucks the skin over his comm implant, leaving a spit-smeared purple bruise. His hips keep rolling like the pistons on a steam train.

He’s heavy, moreso than Peter’s favored type – petite alien chicks with jiggly little breasts and zero wrinkles. Smelly too, and more than a little grubby, inside and out. But that just means he’s real. His cock crushes against Peter’s belly, leaking onto his jacket. And over the comm, Peter hears the screech of someone pulling up a chair.

“God… fucking dammit. Gonna kill you guys…”

“’Guys’?” muses Drax. “Is he talking to us? Or is he partaking in an orgy?”

Peter’s about to tell him to quit being such a voyeur when Yondu, sensing an opportunity to embarrass him, makes a noise that’d sound absurd in a porno flick. It’s a smoky ineloquent moan, far too exaggerated to be sexy. 

“P-Peter! Harder”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. Then Rocket guffaws, only marginally louder than Drax.

Peter punches Yondu. Lightly. More an open-palmed smack. The guy is sat on his cock after all, trapping it between slabs of supple muscle. Not only is Peter not a total jerk, but he doesn’t want to snap his own damn dick-off by shoving the a-hole it’s currently buried inside of off the bed. He does (as is evidenced by his galaxy saving exploits, his affection for his flarking evil team, and his saving of Yondu from a fate the blue bastard most likely deserved) have a decent bone in his body. The one filling Yondu is a fine example. Even if it’s not strictly a _bone_ but a bone- _er,_ and…

Yeesh. Trying to think of innuendos while you’re balls-deep in your old mentor is harder than explaining metaphors to Drax.

“No orgy,” he grunts. “Just me and a… a friend.” Yondu’s moans only mount in volume, in response to Peter’s frenzied slaps. “And we’d like our privacy, so please…?”

“Agreed,” says Gamora. Peter can hear her distaste through the static. He doesn’t know if it’s aimed at Rocket, himself, or his partner.

Rocket sniggers. “Flark no. In fact, I’mma hit record –“

There follows the brief but frenzied sounds of wrestling. Then Gamora’s voice, bland as if she’s reporting the weather. “I’m turning off the comm.”

Click.

Silence.

Peter collapses flat. The movement drags his dick flush to Yondu’s prostate. He knows he’s grazed it – the smirk falls off Yondu’s mug, replaced by flared nostrils and a slack-jawed mouth, drool visible at the corners.

Peter grinds up and in, planting his feet flat and as stable as they’re gonna get on sweat-slicked sheets. He keeps Yondu pinned between the pressure on his prostate and Peter’s hands, which fold heavily over his lower back.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” he growls.

Yondu’s hands hit the covers on either side of his head. He pants, biceps trembling under his coatsleeves with the effort of not falling on Peter – not that Peter couldn’t heave him about if he so pleased, but that would be a sign of _weakness,_ and even when he’s got a dick wedged far enough up his ass to tickle his intestines, Yondu can’t show that. His eyes however… When they open, they’re crinkly from the breadth of Yondu’s grin.

“Go on then, boy,” he says, hoarse from his earlier racket. Serves him right if he loses his voice by morning. “Show me what’chu got. Make your captain proud.”

“Ex-captain,” Peter replies for what must be the hundredth time. He sits up, dragging Yondu with him, and deposits him on his back, Peter still wedged within. “And I know just the thing.”

 

* * *

 

He watches the video again and again, once he’s back on his ship (and after giving Rocket a thorough chewing out, Drax a stern lecture on Terran etiquette surrounding sexual privacy, Groot an awkward smile and wave, and Gamora a still-more awkward shrug.) He can’t stop himself.

It’s a close-up, no faces involved (at Yondu’s insistence, rather than his own). But the thick ginger hair on Peter’s lower abdomen and balls, and the tiny irregularities in Yondu’s scaly skin are unmistakable to anyone that knows them.

They’re upright, although it’s hard to tell at first. Peter drags his limpening cock from Yondu’s body. It’s slow work. He has to tug and twist, scrunching that stretched shiny rim, working it out of him in increments. When the head pops free it’s followed by a string of lube – and a delightful judder through Yondu’s pelvis as he feels himself gape.

His hole’s sex-softened, plush navy. As the video ticks towards its last seconds, a glob of cum forms at his entrance. Then slowly dribbles out. It clings to Yondu’s rim, milky and thick. The drop stretches impossibly far, internal muscles quivering around it, before it plops free. The video ends, freezing on that last frame: Peter’s spare hand tugging on Yondu’s asscheek, holding him open so the camera catches the next slick white drool as it forms.

Then rewind and replay, over and over ad infinitum.

Dammit. Seems it’s not just contact with the blue jackass he’s craving, if he can get off on this. Wiping sticky hands on the loo roll, Peter tucks his vid-device into his pocket and flushes. Yeah, he thinks, rinsing under the tap. This could be a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **If there's more kinks you wanna see in later chapters, let me knooooow! There's some stuff I don't write, but I don't mind if you ask about it - so you have nothing to lose.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **More filth, for the incredible urenogoodtomedead! You, my friend, are a well of inspiration.**

Scene: a bar beyond Knowhere, all swanky Kree-grade adamantium and drinks that smoke like an oceanic volcano before dissolving the skin off the roof of your mouth. From the outside, it looks immaculate. The bar itself is spherical; retractable hexagonal panels cover its surface, like the segments in a metallic honeycomb. The single window, reinforced to withstand anything up to a full-on interplanetary collision, is dark-tinted and reflective, throwing back the light of the far-off supergiant.

The crack comes from the inside.

It spreads, as another body is hurled against it hard enough to liquefy. The shiny tinting suddenly becomes opaque. Then frosted, like ice on a pond an instant before it shatters.

The third and fourth body are luckier than their predecessors – they tip the balance between what breaks: themselves or the window. The crack bulges. For a second, it looks as if the surface tension will hold, but then...

Explosion.

Through it fly a Hraxian and a Centaurian. Both snarling. Both swinging. Both spitting blood and froth and fury. Where once upon a time their fists would've been aimed at whichever unlucky sod had had the misfortune to piss them off at the bar, they’re now directed at each other.

Knuckles crunch. Jaws pop. A silver tooth flies one way and an enamel one the other, and an onlooker couldn't have told you which belonged to whom.

Peter, who’d been looking forwards to spending a quiet weekend with Yondu at one of their old favorite pitstops, finishes piloting the _Milano_ into dock. He waits until he feels the judder of magnetic locks clamping on before he drops his face into his hands.

So much for that plan. Sure it’d only been like, twenty percent of one. But that’s good forwards-thinking, by his standards! He’d even booked them a room! But _no;_ now Yondu and Kraglin are trying to kill each other, and they’re probably gonna get themselves arrested, and then Peter’ll have no choice but to bust them out of jail before they do it themselves (they’ll leave a grisly trail of destruction if left to their own devices, and he can’t have that on his conscience). And _dammit_ but he’d been about to celebrate his first year in space without a criminal record.

“Why,” he hisses, “do you always gotta ruin things? A-hole.”

He doesn’t know which of the two he’s scolding - it doesn’t matter anyway; they’re too far away to hear. Punching his cockpit’s opening button so hard the plexiglass cover almost ejects, Peter hops out as Yondu and Kraglin reach the peak of their parabola.

They keep the gravity low on these fancy outer-rim stations; all the better for maintaining elaborate hairdos. It also means that Yondu and Kraglin fly through the air as if they’re suspended on wires, gathering gawps and goggles from the dockyard crowd before sailing merrily to earth, punching, kicking and biting each other the whole way.

They’re like scrapping children. Only these blows are made with true intent to hurt. And hell, but if Kraglin gets Yondu mad enough to whistle…

The area is chock-a-block with innocent civilians, and while the old jackass is mighty nifty with his toy, Peter doesn’t want it flying about when Yondu’s too pissed-off - or just plain pissed - to punch straight. Sighing, he refastens the cockpit, clamps tightening with a hiss. He sandwiches a steadying hand on each holster, and breaks into a jog.

Outer rim stations have their own private security, hired and trained by whichever company or trade-family is in charge of the operation. There’s no empire jurisdiction - which means Peter’s Nova-approved credentials won’t afford him leeway. But hey. He’s a Guardian of the entire freaking Galaxy. He can handle this.

He elbows through the onlookers. There’s a lot of them, which means a lot of potential collateral. Only a scanty handful have been smart enough to flee: the rest stand rubbernecking. Some even have their datapads out; they snap three-dimensional images to be uploaded to the holonet at a later date.

Peter can’t see his pair of idiots - or his idiot and that idiot’s ex-idiot; he’s not a hundred percent on the terminology. There’s simply too many bodies in the way. Tall and short and broad and slender, every color of the Bifrost. There’s bulky Kronans and hoofed Kymellians and even the occasional A’askavarian.

Peter’s careful not to look at those; he knows from prior experience that they take direct eye-contact as a come on.

“Scuse me,” he pants, barging civilians to either side. “Whoops! Coming through - sorry ma’am… Uh, you might want to cover your daughter’s eyes there, sir. I think things are about to get messy.”

Which they do, as soon as he bursts through the crowd. But not because Yondu and Kraglin are butchering one another in cold blood, turning the pristine station into an abattoir.

Rather, Yondu’s spilled onto the floor under his ex-mate. His dirty hoodie leaves a stain on the polished platinum-plated metal. Kraglin bends over him, shoulders hunched and mohawk bristling like the whiskers on an angry cat. But while his hand rests on Yondu’s throat, it’s not to strangle. And while Yondu’s lips are pursed - so Peter assumes; not that he can see them while Kraglin’s in the way - he doesn’t plan on whistling any time soon.

In fact, he’s moaning into Kraglin’s mouth with something approaching desperation. Seems things are about to get un-PG in a way Peter hasn’t accounted for.

There’s only one thing left to do. He draws his pistol.

“So much for me not being a rebound.”

Yondu’s wrapped around Kraglin’s angular body like a bushbaby clinging to a branch. At Peter’s words, his eyes - slivering as Kraglin grinds his bony hips down as if he’s looking to bruise their imprints into Yondu’s abdomen - snap wide.

“Fuck - fuck! Quill?” He shoves at Kraglin’s chest, forcing the bastard back far enough that they can breathe their own air. And oh, Peter’s never liked the scrawny Ravager mate much, but he’s never hated him with quite this intensity either.

He clicks the safety off his gun as Yondu squirms under Kraglin, still pinned in the most compromising position they could be in while fully clothed. “Hell, get off me! Idjit!”

Fuck everything, but they’re in public. Yondu never lets Peter kiss him in front of other people. Never lets him grind up sweetly into him against a hotel wall - or at least, not for nearly so long (the thing with Rocket on the comms doesn't count).

With Kraglin he’s all eager lust, uncaring for what anyone might say or think or do. But with Peter, he’s always on edge, peering out of his peripherals. For… what? For Kraglin? In case Kraglin catches him with someone else, like Peter’s caught him now?

“Yeah, it’s Quill,” he snaps. “Not Peter. Not anymore. You’ve been struck back to last-name status, _Udonta._ ” Kraglin, recovering faster from his shock, has the audacity to snigger. He shuts up when Peter’s barrel swings in his direction. “Laugh it up again. I dare you.”

He won’t _actually_ kill him. Even pre-Guardians, Peter balked at taking lives on a whim. Sometimes in the heat of battle, murder is necessary. But that doesn’t mean each death he’s been the direct cause of doesn’t fizzle at the edges of Peter’s consciousness when he’s trying to sleep.

Kraglin doesn’t know this. And apparently, for all his and Peter’s purported closeness, neither does Yondu. It takes a long ten seconds for Yondu to overcome his surprise and piece together a way to salvage this situation. Which he does via the only means he knows how.

_Phwee._

Kraglin and Peter fling themselves backwards. They avoid the sizzling arrow by a margin, as it threads beneath both their noses. Kicking his ex-mate off him, Yondu stands with a grunt, brushing non-existent dust from his pants.

Seeing him in casuals rather than Ravager garb still strikes Peter as weird. Weird and discomforting and all kinds of hot. But Peter’s mad, not horny. So he keeps telling himself - although there’s a blaze of heat in his crotch, and snapshots from every time he’s walked in on his captain and first mate take the opportunity to reel through his mind on fast-forward.

He shifts from sole to sole, stopping himself from chubbing with an internal litany of unsexy thoughts: Rocket and Nova Prime, caught  _in flagrante delicto_ on sun-drenched sheets; Drax perfecting his manscaping at the breakfast table; Gamora telling him to focus on her face before she relieves him of his eyeballs. His pistol doesn’t dip, locked in a steady two-handed grip. It also doesn’t waver from where it’s pointed at Kraglin’s head.

Kraglin, staring down arrow and plasma bolt alike, scoffs, and hawks a spitgob at Peter's boots. Then pointedly raises his hands. Peter could be mistaken - although this would be difficult; the light’s so clear and bright that every patchy, scraggly tuft of stubble on Kraglin’s face glints in high relief, as do the caps on Yondu’s jagged teeth when he smiles - but the old blue git looks relieved.

“There,” he says, voice husky from the kiss. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, as if he can eradicate Kraglin’s taste if he only rubs hard enough. “Now we can all go back to playin’ happy families...”

Yondu’s not accustomed to de-escalating a situation. He’s not very good at it. Peter’s fingers tighten around the pistol until it creaks. “Flark no! You and me, we need to talk!”

“Well,” says the hired peacekeeper, stalking up behind him. “The three of you can talk as much as you want in the prison cells, until you’ve cooled your heads. Sound good?”

Peter looks at the glittering energy blade that’s resting a millimeter from his jugular. A short look - it’s so close that the heat is frying his retina. He doesn’t dare gulp, aware that the slightest bob of his throat might result in a gashed artery. “Good idea,” he croaks. The second guard, who has Kraglin in a similar hold, barks something in a guttural language. He turns his dark visor to Yondu. Yondu, the only one not to have an escort, digs a finger in one ear.

“You whaddy-what now?”

“I think,” says Peter faintly, letting his gun slither free. It clatters off his bootcap, looking small and plastic compared to the guards’ glowing blades, like a child’s toy. No expenses had been spared for this place’s security; no wonder Yondu’d never cased it for a mark. “He’s telling you to come quietly. Or me and Krags are forfeit.”

Yondu mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘as if I give a shit about you a-holes’. But that’s only to be expected. After a full minute of posturing - during which the oohing crowd is ushered out of harm’s way, back towards the mall-like superstructure of the main station, which houses everything from holo-arcades to cafes and the occasional swimming pool - Yondu admits defeat. He whistles the arrow to his harness, sigh deflating the proud line of his shoulders.

“C’mon then,” he snarls at the guard holding Peter. “Lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

Peter’s booked them a slot at the fanciest hotel around. Not that he’s trying to _impress_ Yondu, but… Okay, he’s totally trying to impress Yondu.

They say affection can’t be bought, but whoever ‘they’ are in this scenario, they’ve never fucked a Ravager Admiral. Peter hadn’t expected to carry Yondu over the threshold and lay him out on a rose-strewn divan - or at least, he’d kept such hopes battened in the space in his head reserved for ‘fantasies that will never happen’, to prevent disappointment, mockery, and black eyes.

Peter checks his chronometer as they’re hustled through the space station’s tubular guts. Yep - they’ve missed the cancellation date. He won’t be getting that deposit back.

Admittedly, the alternative isn’t awful. Their accommodations are far from the worst Peter has endured. Heck, when he’d first joined-slash-been-pressganged-onto Yondu’s crew, he’d slept in the old trinket cupboard off the captain’s room. And if he’d pissed off someone larger, hungrier, and angrier than him - which happened on a biweekly basis until he crested six-four at eighteen and started making the Ravagers regret messing with him rather than the other way around - he slept in the vents, far from Horuz’s greasy knives and Taserface’s stewpot.

It had been claustrophobic and uncomfortable, and the constant cycling of rusty air made him wheeze like he was suffering an asthma attack. Apparently the noise echoed, because whenever Peter was in the vents above the cabins, he’d find a droopy-eyed captain wedging his torso through the nearest grate halfway through the night shift, hoarsely whispering for him to _come sleep in my room already, idjit._

Pride kept Peter from begging for that boon. But when it was extended, he never said no.

Those nights, tucked against Yondu’s side as he snored, sometimes with Kraglin spooning the captain from behind and sometimes with him absent entirely, hold a special place in Peter’s memory.

 _Happy families,_ Yondu’d said.

But Peter can’t think too hard about that, or he’ll start longing for the days before his respect and healthy fear of Yondu were tarnished by his desire to fuck him. Things have changed, yes, and not necessarily for the better. However, in Peter’s experience few changes can be categorized into 'good' or 'bad'. His and Yondu’s relationship is _different_ now; neither an improvement nor otherwise. Peter refuses to assess what they do together under a moralizing light.

Some might say this is because he’s afraid of what he'd find. Peter insists it’s because he doesn’t need the reassurance; he _knows_ it’s okay to fuck his sort-of-father-figure like he’s a dockgirl at a sleazy port, whenever they’re left alone for more than five minutes.

However, he and Kraglin rarely see eye to eye.

“Seriously?” hisses Kraglin at Yondu, as they’re ushered into their cells. Their overnight accommodation is three spacious boxes, separated from each other by bars and from the corridor by a forcefield that shimmers like a soap-bubble. “You’re screwing yer own damn kid? That’s fucked up, even by your standards.”

Peter struggles, trying to boot him. He only gets in one kick before the guards wedge the pair of them apart, hauling Kraglin to the nearest cage. “I ain’t a kid anymore, for the last fucking time! Dammit Kraggles, stop treating me like I’m some sorta wetnose brat -”

“You stole from us, Quill! I’ll treat ya however I fuckin’ well want - “

The forcefield closes behind him, the angry motions of his mouth turning to guppy-shapes. Soundproofed then - although they’ll still be able to hear each other, once they’re inside. Peter turns his gaze beseechingly on the guards.

“Hey, look. Is this really necessary? I mean, lock these guys up, sure. They’re Ravagers. Ex-ravagers…”

He casts a mollifying glance at Yondu. Yondu doesn’t notice. He’s watching Kraglin shout through the glistening skein. The Ravager mate has turned blotchy-red, uglier than ever with fury. There’s something _wrong_ with Yondu's expression. Peter can’t quite put his finger on it. It's as if he’s compensating with his poker face. As if he’s still chewing on Kraglin’s first accusation - _That’s fucked up, even by your standards._

All Peter knows is that he doesn’t like it. He puffs up, broad chest straining at the jacket zipper, and jabs his thumb into his sternum, speaking loudly to win Yondu’s attention. “But I’m a Guardian of the goddam Galaxy! Check my record! It’s squeaky! I don’t deserve to be tossed to rot with these jerks.”

“It’s not squeaky anymore,” the guard grunts. He slaps his palm flat on the reader. The next cell peels open, accompanied by a klaxon-like blare - and Kraglin’s yodelling, which washes over them for the few seconds before Peter’s bundled through the gap and the forcefield gloops over the doorway once more.

“You sick fucker, Udonta. You pick up some stupid snot-nosed lil’ Terran - what, to fuck him? How long’s this been going on? Do you like kids or something? Were you banging him the whole while behind my back?”

“God, shut up!” Peter yells, punching the bars between them. All he earns for his trouble are split knuckles. Kraglin’s unperturbed by his rage; he gets in his face, sneer as yellow as Yondu’s.

“Fuckin’ make me, you big Terran _bitch -_ ”

The third cell, on Peter’s opposite side, yawns open. Yondu doesn’t resist as he’s punted through. He stumbles a step, then rights himself. His arrow’s been clipped from his waist and stashed who-knows-where.

The Guards have scanned their faces and cross-referenced them against mugshots from every intergalactic criminal database. If they hadn’t clocked who they were on sight, they’re more than aware of who they’re up against by now. Which means they’ll also know the specs for Yondu’s weapon, including its limitations.

Peter plays them internally, one by one. _The arrow can be stowed securely in yaka-metal, which will block the signal from the Centaurian’s crest. The arrow can be removed from the immediate vicinity - ranges vary, but most do not exceed a kilometer. The Centaurian’s crest can be shorn off. Or they can be gagged, have their tongue cut out, or mutilated in any other way which will make them unable to whistle._

Really, they’re lucky the guards opted for the first two options. Not that having a gagged Yondu on his lap in the Slave Halls hadn’t gotten Peter revved - but he suspects being made to feel helpless is the last thing Yondu needs right now.

He leans on the furthest set of bars, as far from them as he can get. There’s an empty cell behind him, as there is behind Kraglin. It’s just the three of them, the guards having already trailed out the way they came, and as Kraglin’s yelled himself hoarse, they stand in silence. They’ll be left here for the night, then booted off the station once they’re deemed sober enough to drive - after incurring a hefty fine, of course. Unless they break out first.

Before that though, there’s something Peter wants to prove. He’s brimming with anger, hotter and darker than he ever remembers. Even when he’s bawling Yondu out for threatening to eat him, or acting like making a few calls is ‘slaving’ to source a job, or demanding that Peter be grateful to him for a thousand things in a thousand stupid self-obsessed ways, it’s never come close to this.

He wants to gouge out Kraglin’s eyes. Or at least, staple them open so the bastard has no choice but to watch…

Usually, thoughts like that would be Peter’s cue to dial things back a notch. He knows he has the _capacity_ to be an unrepentant turdblossom, on par with Ronan or worse. It’s his constant checking of himself that keeps him from being a hundred-percent-dick, rather than any natural inclination.

Being good is a choice - the Guardians have taught him that. It’s one heroes make every day, in every moment. You have to choose to give a shit, because no one else in the galaxy is going to do it for you.

Right now though, Peter’s a little lacking in self-control. Blame it on the humiliation of being frogmarched to jail in front of a host of civilians. Blame it on his frustration at the new black mark next to his name (Gamora is going to be _so disappointed_ ). Or blame it on the scene that plays out every time he blinks, like it’s seared on the backs of his eyelids: Kraglin crushing Yondu against silver floor-slabs, blue hands dragging over his ribs, fucking his tongue between his ex-captain’s teeth…

Well, Yondu is Peter’s ex-captain too. And Peter doesn’t like to share.

“Hey Yondu.” He wedges an arm between the shiny white bars to beckon. “C’mere, would you?”

Yondu eyes that crooked finger like it’s bait in a trap. “Uh. Why?”

He’s not being nearly so loud as usual. There’s no barging off the forcefield or demanding that they be given the five-star VIP treatment, because  _we’ve got a Guardian of the frickin’ Galaxy among us; you oughta show some respect._ Capitalizing off other people’s victories is what Yondu _does._ He siphoned half of Peter’s pay into his own accounts for years, claiming it covered childcare costs. Of course he’d milk Peter’s new job description for all it’s worth - which is why it’s so worrying that he hasn’t yet.

Peter shrugs. He doesn’t bother lying. “Cause I wanna fuck you, dumbass. C’mon.”

Yondu glances to Kraglin, who heaves a snort at Peter’s declaration, one so loud that it would’ve blown out anyone else's nostrils. He doesn’t look convinced. “Uh…”

“It’s what we were gonna do anyway, right? Just cause we didn’t make it to the hotel room…” Because _somebody_ was stupid enough to pick a fight. “...Doesn’t mean we can’t screw. I’ve been watching the vid from last time non-stop. So c’mon, captain.”

He palms his groin, rough and crude, glad that this place is scrupulous in their top-notch lighting. Their holding cells are as bright and clean as the satellite’s surface. It means Yondu can see Peter’s leer - and Kraglin’s taut expression behind it. He stays plastered to the far side of his cell. Motions to the bars, wavering between a grin and a grimace.

“What about those?”

“I’ll fuck you through ‘em. It’ll be easy.” Peter fondles himself, letting Yondu see every one of the nine inches he's missing out on. His cock bulges to the touch: a thick rounded rod sandwiched to Peter’s inseam, stretching the leather until the stitches strain. It’s easy to get hard, despite Kraglin’s gaze, which stipples his nape like red-hot acupuncture pins. Almost as if Peter gets off on the thought of proving which of them Yondu belongs to. The only thing that could make this better is if Yondu would quit lounging against the far cell wall and come close enough to grab, spin, and drag backwards onto him.

Impatience overtakes horniness. Peter closes the gap, rutting over the bars. He refuses to turn around. He has no interest in Kraglin’s mocking expression - although he hears the scoff, and sees Yondu’s throat jerk around a swallow.

The ex-admiral looks… nervous. His eyes keep flitting about, as if the guards might have left a bolthole in his cell that he’s managed to overlook. The dichotomy between the Yondu Peter knows and the one in front of him now is jarring. So Yondu can saunter through the slave halls with his head held high; yet as soon as Peter wants to screw him in front of his ex, he gets jittery? 

“C’mere,” he says again, only now it’s more of a growl. He rubs against the bars; a sensual, serpentine grind. The lump at his groin is highlighted by the bright light panels inset into the ceiling above. He can smell his own arousal, and it only turns him on further. “Wanna fuck that cute blue ass of yours. Make you beg me to cum…”

Yondu’s lips twitch up. “You ain’t never made me beg, boy. Not properly.”

“Not _yet,_ ” Peter corrects. Gives himself a squeeze, moaning lewd and low, and ignoring Kraglin’s disgusted “Ick”. “Boss, I’m gonna fuck you so good…”

“He ain’t your boss no more!” Kraglin shouts. His volume’s turned up rather higher than the situation demands. Peter twists over one shoulder to smirk.

“Well perhaps he can call me 'boss' instead. What do you say, Yondu?”

“I say yer both idiots.”

Peter’s hips keep rocking, slow and sultry. His broad chest is sandwiched to the bars; he’ll be feeling their imprint on his ribs tomorrow, but it’ll be worth it if Yondu does as he’s told.

“Y’know what I think?” he breathes. “I think you don’t want Kraggles to know that I can fuck you better than he ever did. I think you’re trying to protect that git’s ego, because you think you’ve gotta chance at getting back together, even after he stabbed you in the back. So if you wanna prove to me that you’re not that stupid… You know what you’ve got to do.”

Another pump of himself through the leather. Another roll of his cock against his palm, fingers crooking to entice Yondu closer.

Yondu obeys, albeit grudgingly. He slinks towards Peter, scowl scrunching his nose. Peter can’t tell if he intends to submit to his ministrations or punch him in the face. He takes the chance though, staying against the bars rather than retreating to a safe distance. Back away now, and he loses any prayer of seeing this through. He’s got to act like he’s in control, like he doesn’t harbor a single doubt, otherwise they’ll both see through the ruse.

Can’t ever show weakness. Yondu taught him that.

“Turn around and bend over, cap’n,” he purrs, once Yondu’s glowering at point-blank range. His blueness is enhanced by the light above, and he’s vibrating with what is either eagerness or fury. When Peter opens his mouth to reiterate the command, he bundles a handful of gingery hair, wrenches his head down to a kissable distance, and pushes his tongue inside.

He kisses like he fights. Like he fucks. The brutal edge of teeth and the sly slide of tongue, the mash of his jaw on Peter’s and the scratch of their stubble, all of these make it less a romance and more a war of attrition.

His mouth tastes sour: saliva and blood. Twining their tongues, Peter chases that tang until the copperiness is overwhelming. He knows he’s pressing on the divot of the tooth lost during his and Kraglin’s brawl when Yondu winces, tugging on his hair to slow him down.

It’s the first molar behind his canine on the underside - a gap that’ll only be visible when Yondu smiles. A little secret for the three of them. Knowing it’s there, feeling out the jagged root, is almost as thrilling as Yondu’s pained growl.

He fights back, clashing his incisors off Peter’s hard enough to jar his jaw, and chases the tongue out of his mouth with a rude bite to its tip. The kiss only gets more brutal from then on. When he pulls away, it’s Peter who’s wincing, and he has to ghost his fingers across his lips to check they’re not hanging off in shreds.

“Buddy. Was that really necessary?”

“Boy,” Yondu growls. Shakes the hand buried in Peter’s hair to enunciate. “You don’t give the orders, remember?”

Peter does his utmost not to pout. In part because he suspects Yondu would laugh, mostly because Yondu nips _hard,_ and his entire lower face feels bruised. “C’mon - not even once?”

“Not here. Not now.” _Not in front of him._

It’s not _never,_ but that doesn’t mean Peter’s satisfied. Dammit, can’t Yondu see this isn’t about the two of them? It’s about Peter and Kraglin. And so long as his old frenemy’s watching - Peter can hear him: stalking from one side of his cell to the other, muttering insults under his breath - Peter won’t back down. He might compromise though. Just a little.

“Turn around,” he repeats. Then, quieter: “Please, sir. For me.”

Yondu rolls his eyes. But hitches up one corner of his mouth: a sharp-edged smirk that makes his eyes crinkle and reveals a chipped silver tooth still pink with Peter’s blood.

“Never could say no when you asked me nicely. Damn brat.”

Swivelling on his heels, he presents Peter with his back. Peter doesn’t hesitate to put hands on him. He reaches through the bars, stroking Yondu’s waist, tugging him so his shoulderblades bump the metal. Running his palms up and down Yondu’s torso, he squeezes him through his loose hoodie and pushes up the frayed edge, so the dark uniformity of it and his pants is broken by a slice of electric blue.

This Peter rubs with glee. He digs his thumbs into the dimples on Yondu’s lower back. His pants don’t quite fit snug; they sag low on his hips, caught by the swell of his ass. Peter massages there as well, scooching under the fabric to give himself more access. The flesh indents beautifully to the press of his digits, soft and supple, and when Peter mashes his pelvis against the bars in an effort to grind against him Yondu makes a noise, somewhere between pleased and its opposite.

That leaves a big margin for interpretation. Peter convinces himself it’s positive. Yondu confirms it when he reaches behind himself, snatching Peter’s beltloops to drag him impossibly closer.

They stand in an upright spoon: Yondu’s back to Peter’s front. With Kraglin several paces to Peter’s rear, the smaller man is invisible. But the husky groan as Peter gnaws a aubergine-colored hickey into Yondu’s neck more than makes up for the lack of visuals.

Kraglin’s mind will be serving up a delightful image of what Peter’s doing to eke those noises from his ex-captain. The lanky fucker must be warring between jealousy and reaching for his own belt-buckle. Peter knows this, because he’d be doing the exact same in his position.

In an ideal world, he’d draw this out. Torture all three of them. He’d play with Yondu until he was a shaking mess, drooling for it and uncaring of Kraglin’s jibes. But he doesn’t know when the guards might return. And while Yondu’s consented to being fucked in front of his first mate - just about - Peter doubts his lenience extends to full-on exhibitionism.

That’s a mighty shame. Peter’s discovering a whole new kink. He doesn’t know if it’s due to the semi-public aspect of where they are, the competitive thrill of one-upping Kraglin, or simply his lingering amazement that a Ravager Admiral is presenting himself for a pounding. But whatever the cause, Peter’s doped on horniness, and he gropes Yondu’s body like he’s hunting for his next hit.

The slats separating them are spaced at intervals. They’re far enough apart that Peter can wedge his arms through to the shoulder, and even most of his thigh. He takes the opportunity to shove one between Yondu’s. It’s rougher than intended; he splits Yondu’s legs open so forcefully he almost knocks them out from under him.

The fingers hooked through Peter’s beltloops bleed white. Yondu clings to him for balance, teetering about on his toes. Peter’s leg stabs between his, hoisted high enough to seat the Centaurian on his quadricep.

When Peter jiggles, calf muscle bulging as it takes Yondu’s weight, Yondu’s grip slides from Peter’s pants. He has to snatch at the bars over his head instead.

Peter’s not complaining, although he suspects his foot’ll cramp if he keeps this up. Yondu has to stretch to stabilize himself; his back forms a swooping arch, ass crushed to the metal and crotch to Peter’s leg, head hanging as he twists onto the pressure. Peter can feel the weight of his cock, filling where it’s stuffed down Yondu’s left pants-leg. The insides of the leather must be squishy with precum, the fly so hot it feels like it’s scalding him - Peter’s own pants are definitely approaching the sore side of tight. Luckily, he doesn’t plan on wearing them much longer.

He growls, hands roving beneath the hoodie to pinch nipples and rub the sensitive slit of Yondu’s pouch. That wins a full-body shudder. Yondu goes lax for a delicious second, hands slipping from the bars and weight supported only by Peter. He’s already panting, Peter’s pleased to note. Tongue peeping wetly between his lips; eyes half-lidded, like they had been when he kissed Kraglin earlier…

Peter concentrates on grinding his thigh into Yondu’s groin. This ain’t about Kraglin - or it is, but only insofar as Peter can mock the bastard for letting Yondu go long enough for Peter to catch him. He has the Centaurian rut down on his leg, squeezing it helplessly between his own.

The glaring lights gloss his blue skin and highlight the swell of his buttocks. The dark stripe of a crack is just visible over the lip of his low-tugged pants. Peter has to untangle one arm from the bars to tease it, but the effect is more than worth the fumbling: Yondu latches onto the forearm shoved under his jumper, hugging Peter’s wrist as his bootsoles skid along the floor.

He’s trying to brace himself. But Peter’s having none of it. He pulls his leg into his cell before Yondu can find traction, wincing as the bars tenderize muscle on either side. He’ll have bruises come morning - but that’s per-the-course, when you’re fucking a Ravager.

When Yondu hisses his disapproval, Peter wins his favor by pushing his shoulders until the ex-captain gets the gist. He bends so his torso juts out perpendicular to his legs, parallel with the floor. Conveniently, his ass rests between two bars, spread nicely by the pressure, leather stretching between the globes.

Peter encourages Yondu to reach behind himself and latch onto the metal, already warmed by their frotting. He’ll have a hard time holding on once Peter gets into the rhythm of the fuck. But Yondu’s a tough cookie; Peter trusts him to know his own limits, and to holler before Peter jars his shoulders out of their sockets.

There’s no shadows in these bright, stark cells; no dimness to disguise the plump pink cock that springs from behind Peter’s zipper the moment he unrasps it, or the oily shimmer of microscopic scales as he pushes Yondu’s hoodie up and his pants down, just enough to reveal his ass and a handspan of lower back.

Leaving his pants trapping blue thighs, Peter sets to digging out a lube tube. There’s always one _somewhere,_ and he never leaves the ship unprepared. Sure enough he finds one, tucked in the lining by his collar, and sets to squeezing out enough to make this easy on both of them.

“Enjoying the show, Kraggles?” he asks conversationally, as he warms the glob between his fingers. He lays a soothing hand on Yondu’s tailbone as his spine cranks stiff. Geezer must’ve forgotten about their audience, or at least put him from his mind long enough to savor the burn of Peter’s first digit, which spears his pucker slowly, burying itself to the knuckle in silky navy.

The penetration itself is exhilarating: Peter barely has to rub Yondu to get him to unclench. Just one push and the bastard opens, muscle clamping on Peter’s finger like it wants to tug his whole arm inside. Peter grins, chuffed.

“Damn, boss. Your hole’s all soft. You been fingering yourself when I’m not around?”

In between hunting down his treacherous first mate and getting up to gods-knew what mischief. So long as he hasn’t let Kraglin stretch him in Peter’s stead, Peter can forgive him. He can forgive almost anything, what with Yondu cussing and spitting, twitching into the blunt stab of the second finger.

Except when Yondu says his ex-mate’s name.

“What did you say?”

“Kraglin, for fuck’s sake. Don’... Don’t want him to watch.”

“Seriously? Buddy, it’s a bit late for that now.” Peter glances over his shoulder. “And it’s okay. He’s not looking.” It's true. Kraglin faces away. He’s hunched over, gaunt and bony as a cuttlefish, but his shoulders fill out his baggy jumpsuit in a manner that’s all too telling.

“You two are disgustin’,” he says, addressing the empty cell in front of him. “But I don’t give no shits. You be as gross as you want, cap’n - uh. Udonta. Means fuck-all to me.”

His arms are crossed. From behind he looks like he’s hugging himself, pinching his thin biceps to keep himself warm. Or to keep himself from doing something. When he turns to pitch Peter a glower, Peter catches a glimpse, and his suspicions as to what that _something_ might be are confirmed. His grin magnifies tenfold, as he fucks the base of his fingers against Yondu’s rim, working lube inside him in powerful prods. 

“Mm-hm. Doesn’t stop you getting off on this.”

Kraglin mottles red. “Shut the hell up, Quill!”

Peter gives Yondu’s ass a congratulatory pat, pleased he hasn’t gotten flighty during that little interchange. “Shame we can’t turn you around,” he muses, squeezing one cheek and using it to draw Yondu back onto his fingers. “Then you could see him try to pretend that watching you take another man’s cock isn’t turning him on.”

He expects Yondu to swear and boot him through the bars for backtalk - looks forwards to it, even. It’ll give him an excuse to drive his fingers into him faster, rougher, jabbing at his prostate like he’s looking to pop it. Fighting’s second nature to them, whether they’re posing as father and son, captain and operative, or Guardian and rogue Ravager.

Peter doesn’t usually encourage violence in the bedroom - but today’s a special occasion. With Kraglin watching, and the memory of his and Yondu’s kiss still blazing away in Peter’s head, all his inhibitions have been drowned, surer than if he’d chugged six Swizzlers in close succession. He digs his three thickest fingers inside, pausing when they’re immersed to their widest point before stretching cruelly apart, forcing Yondu to suffer the cool air.

“Bet you’d love that, boss. You ain’t captain no more - you don’t gotta pretend like you’re always on top. You can let him see. Let ‘em _all_ see. I could drag you out before the entire fucking Ravager army and screw you on your belly like a bitch…”

It’s near-nonsense. He’s saying the first things off his head, questing for a reaction more than anything. And he succeeds - if not in the way he anticipated.

Yondu doesn’t holler. Doesn’t even snarl. Instead he groans, the note crackling in his throat. He swivels his pelvis, nodding like one of the bobbleheads he stacks on his pilot’s console.

His dick bobs under him. The wet head prongs at the folds of his hoodie, leaving a translucent smear. Squeezing his legs together, he stands knock-kneed with only his grip on the bars keeping him upright, and squelches off Peter’s digits before ramming himself full. With his arms locked out behind him, it’s a miracle he can do more than rock. But Yondu’s never let little things like pain or a crikked back keep him down - although he’ll no doubt bitch at Peter for both once they’re freed.

Peter laughs. He helps him along, smacking the base of his fingers against the wet hole again and again. He alternates between making them into a point and stretching them wide, twisting and turning them every which way, never letting Yondu settle into a rhythm. By the time he pushes his cock in, Yondu will already by writhing. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Shaddup,” comes the response. “D-damn brat.”

Peter gives him ten more hard pumps, knuckles knocking off Yondu’s perineum like he’s punching him. The suck of lube is almost as loud as Yondu’s moans. He’s trying to stifle them, trying to chew his cheeks and bite his tongue, but when Peter yanks his fingers out, not bothering to twist to lessen the sting, he can’t swallow his yelp.

He gapes, just a little. Humming to himself, pleased with his handiwork, Peter works his thumb around the outer edge of his rim. Then stretches him with one hand on each asscheek, admiring the way his hole flexes like a unfurling navy flower.

Yondu’s left empty for a full minute. His plush internals twitch and spasm around nothing. He squirms through the seconds, fists creaking ever-tighter around the bars, before admitting defeat with a grit-toothed “Petey…”

“I thought you weren’t gonna beg?”

“F-fuck off, Petey. Look, just…”

“Just what?”

The sound of Yondu’s breathing, fast and high-pitched, cuts across Peter’s measured inhales. From behind, he hears the buzz of an unrasping zipper. Kraglin’s given into temptation. Hearing him cuss as he drags skin up and down his prick shouldn’t make Peter’s pulse thud harder in his crotch, but it does.

“Hear that?” he murmurs. Yondu’s nod is a fraction short of desperate. “That’s your ex, beating one off as you’re fucked. Does it make you feel good, knowing he still wants a piece of you?”

“M-makes me think I shouldn’t sleep with either of you freaks again…”

“Liar.” Peter fondly digs a thumb inside him, purring at the wet give. Then lines himself up, relishing Yondu’s snatched breath. He doesn’t pierce him straight away though, preferring to rub his cockhead against the loosened circle, leaning back to admire the twitching, lube-shined ring. “Damn, you’re greedy. You want this?”

“Petey…”

“I want you to say the words.” Peter holds the tip of his prick in one hand and Yondu’s hip with the other, keeping him pinned while Peter’s cockhead pops in and out, never penetrating deeper than an inch. “ _I. Need. Your. Dick._ Four words, Yondu. Not too hard. Just say them loud enough for skinny back there to hear.”

“I’ve heard ‘em enough!” Kraglin snaps. But the rapid smack of his fist against his cockbase informs Peter he’s enjoying this just as much as they are. Whatever went wrong between Yondu and Kraglin, whatever old grudge had been left to fester, it doesn’t stop them desiring each other. But Peter has Yondu now, and Kraglin’ll just have to live with it. Peter plans on proving it to him in the simplest way he knows.

“C’mon,” he croons, scraping over Yondu’s opening so the flutters massage his shaft. Lube smears. It’s getting increasingly difficult to keep himself from plunging on in. Resisting the urge to thrust is a special kind of masochism. Peter’s pulse rebounds from the head of his prick in waves, and he knows he’s not going to last long. But he’s already teased Yondu to the brink - so long as Peter comes last, he’ll consider this match a win.

“C’mon, boss. Four little words. You know you wanna say them. You know you want this.” Yondu shakes his head, shoulders trembling from the strain of clutching the bars. His hole’s quivering too, hungry for more. Peter almost feels bad for the guy. Almost. “Four little words. Need me to say them again to remind you? It’s _I, need, your_ and -”

“I need your dick!”

“What was that?” Peter asks the question on instinct: Yondu had spoken too fast, words jumbling together. But the confession makes Yondu  _writhe,_ moaning twice in quick succession - once accidentally and once in self-directed frustration. Peter can guess what he said. But he still has to ask again, just to eke this out a little longer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

“I said I need your damn fucking dick, Peter. Dammit!”

“Louder.” Peter rubs harder. Then _pushes,_ letting a full three inches glide in. Yondu constricts around him, gluttonous for more. The wet noise makes all three of them squirm. “I told you, Kraglin has to hear.”

“I can hear fine, Quill…”

Peter raises his voice, speaking over him. He draws out again, leaving Yondu bereft, and traces comforting spirals over the tattoos looping Yondu’s waist. “Louder, Yondu. Say it louder.”

And Yondu, voice hitching, does.

“I… I want…”

“Need.”

“I _need,_ fucking _dammit_ Quill -”

“Without the cussing.”

“Yer a sick damn monster you know that? I raised a fucking devil. An evil lil’ _a-hole..._ ”

Yondu readjusts his grip on the bars, muscle flexing across his back. He clamps his teeth around the next volley of curses and breathes heavily through his nose, eyelashes moist as he struggles to control himself. It’s a battle he loses, as soon as Peter bumps his prick off his perineum.

“Okay, I need it! I need it so fucking bad! I need your dick, Petey. _Please._ ”

The last word is all breath. It’s also going to be haunting Peter’s dreams for the foreseeable future. He has to squeeze his eyes shut and dig his nails into his palms to keep himself from jizzing there and then. When he feels capable of thrusting without blowing his load, he steadies his grip on Yondu, hearing him gulp with anticipation. “You asked for it,” he says quietly. Then spears him, so deep and sweet that the air rushes from Yondu’s lungs.

“Oh… Fuck,  _Peter…_ ”

Yondu’s legs are on the cusp of giving out. It’s hard to hold him up when they’re manoeuvring around the bars, but Peter does his best. He winds up grabbing Yondu’s hands, prying them from their deathclutch on the metal and knotting their fingers together instead. He tugs Yondu along his cock, swinging him back and forth.

Yondu has to push onto his toes to get the right angle. He does so, wobbling from foot to foot, and Peter knows from the noises he’s making - sharp yips and spitty gasps - that every minute readjustment of his weight is rolling Peter’s cock inside him, agitating those delicate nerve endings in new and exciting ways.

It’s the quiet but eloquent “fuck” from Kraglin that spurs him on. Peter starts to thrust, slow at first, relishing the tight vice around him, but faster and harder as Yondu softens. He yanks him back to meet him, wringing a repetitive slapping, squelching noise that makes Yondu quake from head to toe.

Although really, it’s only his insides that Peter’s focused on right now. So damn hot, and tight, and _soft…_ He groans, head tossed back, pectorals stretching his jacket. There’s sweat beading on his forehead; more trickles down his collar and soaks through the underarms of his shirt. But he can’t stop. He can’t even slow down. He needs _more…_

He transitions to holding only one of Yondu’s wrists, gripping a bright blue buttock hard enough to bruise. He drags the meat to one side, wanting to watch his cock dive in and out. Lube drools from its underside, splurting when he fucks deep enough to bang his hips on the bars.

It feels as if Yondu cums almost instantly, although Peter’s logic and tiring muscles inform him that it must have been at least ten minutes. As far as Peter can tell, he doesn’t touch his cock once, squirting messily over his hoodie and boots with his free hand clawing at the air. But Peter can’t concentrate on more than sensation.

Yondu’s innards _pulse._ Contractions flurry around his cock as the ex-admiral climbs his peak, mounts the apex, and bellyflops down the other side.

“Petey,” he’s saying dazedly. “Krags. Petey. Krags, _Pete…_ ”

Peter can’t hold it against him. He does fuck harder though, as good as bouncing the smaller blue body off his cock and then yanking it flush to the root. He doesn’t stop, even though Yondu’s captive hand is dangling limp in his, and his body’s gone slack and boneless.

Peter keeps them upright mostly through willpower, wrapping his arms around Yondu’s waist. He drags him upright, forcing him to flop against the bars rather than sagging away, as the last rhythmless jerks rock their bodies together. Then bursts inside him, holding deep as he spills.

Seed pumps into Yondu’s core. It’s a scalding liquid flood. His moan is echoed by Peter’s - and Kraglin’s, louder than both combined. The gush turns to a drizzle all too soon. Peter stays buried, twitching cock jolting grunts from Yondu's chest. He holds them together until fluid starts to leak, seeping from the messy join of their groins to varnish his pubic hair.

“Fuck,” he says. “ _Fuck._ ”

Yondu’s recovered to the point that he's regained his sense of humor. He wriggles, sending sparks lancing through Peter’s softening cock. “Now who’s cussin’?”

Kraglin chuckles. It’s not like his usual harsh bark of a laugh, which is only made at someone else’s expense. It’s softer. Smokier. A thousand times more genuine - and he must realize it, because he clears his throat and wipes his own soaked hand on his jumpsuit.

It’s borne worse stains. No one’ll notice. The same can’t be said for Peter - he’s already dreading explaining to his team that he needs to bump laundry day to the highest priority no the chore roster, again.

He lets himself relax, ungumming from Yondu’s ass with a slick twist. Yondu’s face screws up as Peter flops out of him, but he coerces the scowl away when Peter fills him with fingers instead. There’s only two of them, and they’re positioned to comfort rather than stretch - something for Yondu to clench and bear down on while he tightens.

Being pried apart by Peter’s girth is no mean feat. Yondu’s lucky his species tends towards the elastic. He takes them eagerly, twisting in Peter’s arms to nip at his mouth - and snaps his teeth when bars clonk his chin.

“Damn stupid things. Why, I oughta whistle ‘em through!”

“Can’t,” Peter reminds him. He may be a Terran, sentimental and sappy by the Andromeda galaxy’s standards, but even he’s a little embarrassed by the hoarse, intimate timbre of his voice. Especially as Yondu’s not the only one hearing it. “Yaka box, remember?”

Yondu huffs. Looks down at himself - hoodie riding up his spunk-stained belly, ass impaled and dripping cream into Peter’s cupped palm. “So we’re stuck here for the long run. Do you at least got a tissue?”

“Uh…” Peter enacts a one-handed self patdown. “Nope. Sorry. Krags?”

Kraglin, dabbing himself off with a grotty rag pulled from one of his million hidden pockets, displays his middle finger in the upright position. He wads up the material, which is significantly damper than when he started, and tucks it in his sleeve before zipping up with a pointed rasp. His hairy torso vanishes under crackled leather, one rib at a time. “Hell no.”

Yondu gapes at the injustice. “What? C’mon! After we gave you a show an’ all!”

“You call that a show? Couldn’t see a fucking thing with Petey’s wide-load backside in the way. Next time…” Kraglin taps his chin thoughtfully, ignoring Peter’s protests that he’s trim for a guy of his stature, and Yondu’s sputters that no ‘next time’ will ever come to pass. “Next time, we fuck him together.”

“Deal!” says Peter, at the exact instant that Yondu spits “No way.” The steamy atmosphere is swiftly dissipating into the familiarity of a squabble. Peter and Yondu glower at each other until one of them caves - and for once, it isn't Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Written and edited over two days... One line might have been cribbed from another of my fics; it's from my snippet bank and I can't remember if I've used it before! Sorry if so. But I hope the characterization isn't too skew-whiff. As much as I adore powerbottom Yondu, I love messing about with a sub!Yondu in my Personal Fic That Will Never Be Published, Of Which There Is An Embarrassing Amount. But I'm always wary of uploading this sort of content, in case people think it's OOC.... Oh well. Fingers crossed you liked it?**
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> **Massive thanks again to urenogoodtomedead for the prompt!!**
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> ****


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In which two dicks in a hole are better than one.**

They’re escorted from the prison block at sun-up. If Peter feels mildly uncomfortable, jizz smeared over his cock in a tacky crust, Yondu must be downright itching.

He squirms grumpily, pulling at the damp seat of his pants and glaring straight ahead. As he passes Peter’s cell, the escorting guard's nose wrinkling at the reek of stale sex that clings to the old Ravager, Yondu shoots him a vehement middle finger and hisses,

“We ain’t never followin’ one of your plans again.”

He doesn’t mean it though. Of this Peter is ninety-percent convinced. Eighty. A solid seventy-five. Yondu’d enjoyed himself, even if his post-sex mellowness had swiftly veered into grumps. Peter trusts that he’ll be back for the next round. Especially as that round will include both him and Kraglin.

...Him and Kraglin. Together. In bed. Peter sneaks a look at the first mate out the corner of his eye. Man’s a scraggly scarecrow, bicep thin as a reed in the grip of the guard. Kraglin is as lanky and hairy as Yondu is stocky and scaled. He has a propensity to slouch and a nose that could rival a toucan’s.

All in all, there’s little there that Peter finds attractive - but then again, how he’d first started jerking it to Yondu when he bats more for big-bosomed ladies remains a mystery.

They’re dragged into the bright glare of dawn. The supergiant glosses the satellite in eerie pale light, which saps color from every surface. The orange highlights and blue stripes that decorate the _Milano’s_ sloped flanks are washed to a uniform glossy white – as are the smashed shards of the bar window. Peter winces at the thought of the bill.

“You guys better have helped cover costs,” he hisses to Yondu and Kraglin out of the corner of his mouth. They look strangely similar under the light, differences in skintone negligible. But their laughs tell them apart: Yondu’s a low snigger, Kraglin’s a hyena-like cackle. Ugh. Ravagers. He should’ve known.

Peter rolls his eyes and slopes up the gangramp, glowering at the guards. He halts when he hears the pursuant plod of booted feet. “Why're you following me?”

Yondu shrugs. His grin is disconcertingly wide, for a man whose crotch is stiff with dried cum. “No shower on my ship.”

‘What, you think i’ll let you burn through my hot water?’

“You’re the a-hole who got me dirty…”

“And,” finishes Kraglin primly, “first thing he did when he found out I was at this station was torch my ship. So course I had to get him back by torchin’ his. Now neither of us’ve gotta ride.”

“So hitchhike!” Peter snaps. Hell, they’d left him to do that enough times growing up. Yondu once had the gall to claim it _built_ _character._ But he relents when the pair of them scowl, tapping pistols and arrow alike. Being a Guardian is a big responsibility – one that includes not leaving your awful fuckbuddies to terrorize an innocent spaceport. “Okay, okay! Sheesh. Yondu - I only wish I was surprised. Kraglin - I expected better. But look, this is a team ship, okay? I have to head back to Xandar to pick up my crew! I can’t be seen with you jackasses.”

“And why’s that?” enquires Yondu, sidling up the gangway. He ducks under his arm while Peter's busy thinking of an answer, scooting into the _Milano's_ dim-lit interior. “You ashamed of us, boy?”

“No - yes. A little bit. Please don’t touch that - that belongs to Gamora. She’ll kill me if it’s moved. Heck, they’ll _all_ kill me if _anything_ moves, so…”

Kraglin snatches Drax’s knife from the counter. He juggles to get a feel for the weight, then starts to twizzle it from hand-to-hand, blade blinding at the crest of its figure-of-eight when it throws back the light from above. Peter baulks.

“ _Especially_ that! Fuck, Kraglin. I kinda expected you to have _some_ sense of self-preservation…”

“I could take big boy anyday,” Kraglin boasts. Tall talk for a guy who’d cowered away from Drax, following a comment about _Sakaaran paper-people_ and a friendly punch. Yondu chuckles, ugly and low.

“S’what she said.”

“Oh you did _not…_ ”

Ravagers, Peter thinks to himself as he shakes his head and swarms the steps to the cockpit. They're rather like STDs. Fuck ‘em once and they’re a bugger to be rid of.

“I’ll drop you at Knowhere,” he says, thumbing in the coordinates. Outside, a posse of armed guards fan behind the M-ship, assembled at a safe distance from her backburners. Peter doubts they’re of a patient disposition. If he doesn’t blast off soon, he’ll _be_ blasted off, with the help of the anti-aircraft turrets installed on the bar’s domed roof. It's best he get underway before chewing out his new traveling companions properly. “No arguments. You go your way, I go mine. You wanna fuck, drop me a line. Otherwise, I gotta job - unlike one of you sorry a-holes.”

Yondu waits until his gaze meets his in the reflective cockpit glass before shooting him the finger. Peter spares a minute, as he’s toggling on the engines and amping the thrusters to full, to wonder where Yondu’s gonna go.

Back to the Ravagers? No way. Even if he and Kraglin are moving past whatever had come between them - in baby steps, judging by the way they both skirt around the sides of the room, rather than perching side-by-side on Peter’s table like they usually do and bitching away to each other about nothing in particular - there’s still a whole lot of beef he needs to roast with the other Ravagers.

Being sold into slavery is no small thing. There’s _rules_ about this, Peter knows. Not official ones, because Ravagers turn their noses up at anything more strident than _guidelines,_ but not unspoken ones either.

_Steal from everyone. Not each other. Suckers deserve everything they get. Don’t be a sucker. And if an Admiral’s ousted, maroon them on an uncontacted moon or kill ‘em fair and fast._

Peter admits that he’s glad Taserface didn’t choose that last outcome - but only in the privacy of his mind. He clanks the joystick into take-off position, guns the throttle, and pops them from the station’s atmosphere like a spat tooth after a barfight. There. Now he can mourn his emptied bank account without security breathing down his neck.

The other Guardians are busy, doing Guardian-things. Literally, in this case. There’s a daughter of a wealthy senator who requires babysitting-slash-bodyguarding, while she dines on foie gras at upmarket restaurants, and is chauffeured from party to party. For a woman who’s trying to leave her bootprint on the complex world of interstellar finance, publicity is key. And being the next up-and-coming superstars, the Guardians are the optimal choice to watch her child’s back.

She doesn't care that they might bring baggage of their own to the table, endangering the girl’s life by proxy. This is about making a statement – that the Senator can afford the best-of-the-best. Only problem is, the Guardians have to live up to that reputation if they want to maintain it. Hard to do, when they’re lacking their leader.

They hadn’t been impressed when Quill announced he was taking his ship and some downtime. But hey. Quill hasn’t had a holiday since this whole mess started. And if his team get angry enough to question his right to head their band, at least they’ll sit down and talk it out with him before they riddle him with plasma bolts, or pawn him off at the Kaharkh slave rings.

On cue, Peter glances into the _Milano’s_ main room. Sees Yondu and Kraglin brooding in silence on their respective sides of the cabin. And starts his mental countdown to the next fight. Ravagers aren’t the best at overcoming adversity through peaceful debate - Peter gives them half an hour.

 

* * *

 

That turns out to be generous.

“The hell d’you think you’re doing? Calling the Ravagers?”

“ _I’m_ a Ravager! Can’t just vanish - Taserface’ll think I’ve split, then I’m in it deep!”

“ _You’re_ in it deep? What’s he gonna do, huh? Sell ya to a cartel?”

A noisy sigh. “C’mon man. That were like, a month ago. Don’t tell me you’re still pissed off -”

“Ya sold me into fucking slavery, _Obfonteri._ Course I’m pissed off. In fact, I’m wonderin’ why I shouldn’t end this right here an’ now -”

“Hey, that weren’t my idea! I tried to stop ‘em, but Taserface was all _you’re with us or against us!_ So I -”

“You saved yer own damn neck, I know! Didn’t stop me bein’ gagged and starved and fucked and paraded around like some two-chit piece of ass. Had to be rescued by _this idiot here…_ ”

Peter huffs, sitting a little straighter. He locks the ship onto auto-pilot so he can cross his arms, listening with a growing frown.

“An’ what? You decided to get frisky with him in thanks?”

“Well, didn’t see _you_ volunteering to get the damn gelder off! And y’know what? For the record? Kid’s fucking great at sex. Filthy mind on him. S’more fun than you ever were...”

“Oh yeah?” Peter doesn’t have the opportunity to savor the compliment – or the warm burst of heat that puddles in his groin, generated by the memory of every time he’s sunk into that willing blue ass. Next moment Kraglin’s sneering; Peter can hear it in his voice. “Well, I betcha you taught him everything he knows.”

"What? No. Fuckin’ hell, Krags - it were the first time we’d done anythin’ like that. I ain’t into goddam kids.”

“Just guys twenty years younger than you. Like that’s much less creepy -”

“Well... Y _eah!_ It is less creepy! And hell. Like you’ve got the cleanest slate. Remember that time you screwed that drunk Kree chick -”

This is getting ugly. Peter’s never been fond of soap-style drama, least of all when it stars two of the rare people in this galaxy that he actually gives a shit about. He stomps down the cockpit's steep staircase, scowl chiselled onto his face.

“No blaster-fights on my ship. You wanna scrap, you grab spacesuits and duke it out outside.”

Yondu pulls himself up, no doubt intending to give Peter some gaff about this ship still being on loan from him (not true; he’d repaid that debt nine times over. It's not _his_ fault Yondu keeps putting up the interest rates). Then remembers that, Kraglin having burnt his stolen Kaharkh solo-craft in its dock, he currently owns no more than the clothes on his back and his arrow (and the numerous trinkets that are no doubt cluttering his pockets).

Kraglin meanwhile, pats his pistol butts. He slides them up a fraction, just enough that the metal barrels can gint from under the dull rubber handhold.

“Fine by me,” he snarls. “I can draw before that bastard can whistle, an’ I’ll put money on it.”

Despite how much they annoy him, Peter doesn’t _actually_ want either of them dead. Plus, even if they relocate to outside the ship, there’s still a fair chance one’ll depressurize and splurt over his _Milano’s_ paintjob. Then he'll have to swing by a ship-washing station before heading to Xandar, and Gamora and the guys will be even _more_ mad.

“You two,” he says, stepping between them. Given the ten paces of distance they’ve kept from each other - the entire extent of the _Milano’s_ internal sphere - that’s not difficult. “C’mon. Conflict resolution time. Do I have to fetch the get-along shirt?”

Thankfully, things don't come to that. Kraglin rams his pistols in their holsters harder than necessary, the clatter echoing round the cluttered room. He sneers at the both of them. “I’m startin’ to think I oughta have stayed at that station.”

“I’m startin’ to wish I’d put ya down when I first dragged yer smelly ungrateful ass out the gutter!”

Peter grits his teeth. “Yondu. Unnecessary.”

“Peter,” Yondu mimics, silver-capped canines on display. “You get t’decide on _necessary_ means of dealin’ with yer crew when you’ve been mutinied on and betrayed by them ya trusted most. Agreed?”

“Ain’t your crew,” Kraglin spits. And just like that, they’re at each other’s throats again. Like Peter’s not in the room. Like he doesn’t even _matter._

Peter clears his throat. Coughs, when that fails to get their attention - and then pulls out all the stops. He stomps to the nearest bare patch of wall, and kicks hard enough to make the metal reverberate.

It’s like a clanger hitting the inside of a bell. The boom seems to wobble around them long after the noise should have passed.

Kraglin and Yondu, both used to using this method to gain the attention of their lower-ranking crewmen, aren’t prepared for it being used against them. They unpeel their hands from their ears slowly, blue and white alike. Then, predictably, unite against him.

“Dammit, Quill -”

“The hell was that for, boy?”

“I hope you broke at least three flarkin’ toes…”

“If ya think I ain’t above whoopin’ yer ass you got another thing comin’...”

“I,” said Peter loudly, cutting over the twang of two irate creole-Xandarian accents, “let you come onto my ship. _Yes,_ it’s my ship Yondu; you don’t get an opinion on that. I invited you here, out of the goodness of my heart, because like it or not, you two are currently homeless. So I open my home to you. And this is how you repay me?”

To their credit, both Ravagers look sheepish. Violent, punch-happy, nasty and unhygienic space pirates they might be - but there’s a nugget of respect cultivated among all space-dwellers for the sanctity of another man’s ship. Sanctity that Kraglin and Yondu have stomped all over. Peter shakes his head at them, cranking his disappointment to the max.

“Honestly. I wouldn’t treat you like this.”

Yondu and Kraglin exchange glances. For a moment, it’s like Peter’s back on the _Eclector_ bridge again, watching them team-up to trashtalk an upstart rookie, plot a heist, or just annoy him. They’re perfectly synchronised, and the only thing that prevents Peter feeling jealous - that stops his muscles bunching with the urge to bundle Kraglin down the smuggler-hatch for the duration of the journey so he and Yondu can enjoy themselves in private - are the embers of arousal in the pit of his stomach, which are fanned to life by Yondu’s next words.

“Well boy? Can’t have bad blood between us.”

He paces towards him, smirk caught between puckish and predatory. Kraglin flanks him, the two moving in a simultaneous lope. Peter feels like he’s being stalked, herded. But, he discovers, as Yondu prowls up to get in his face and show him his silver-studded grin, and Kraglin skulks around behind to hook his chin on Peter’s shoulder and glue his gangly body to his back, he likes it.

“So,” Yondu purrs, grabbing Peter’s hands when they cup his jaw and sliding them down to where he wants ‘em. “How can we make it up to ya?”

 

* * *

 

If Peter was worried about getting the ship dirty, all those cares have been blown away. Literally, because Kraglin’s sucking his cock.

They’ve stripped down. That's rare, by their standards. Usually when it’s him and Yondu, everything’s fumbled and fast, the two of them too eager to get their dicks in each other’s asses and tongues in each other’s mouths to bother with zips and belts and all that nonsense.

Peter’s sure glad Yondu’s not bothering with his bulky captain’s coat and all its attached paraphernalia. He can only imagine the trials and tribulations Kraglin went through trying to wrestle that thing off him every time he wanted sex.

Knowing Yondu, that's precisely why he’d made it so complicated. Sure, it took him ten minutes to take a piss. But it also annoyed Kraglin, and in Yondu’s book, that's worth a cramped bladder.

Right now, Yondu’s busy appraising the skinny, hairy ass that sways about as Kraglin draws wetly up Peter’s prick, then gurgles down to the root.

“Missed this,” he says, dealing it a spank. _Crack._ Red swims to the surface, and Yondu smirks at the flinch and the quiet gag, as Kraglin’s throat contracts around his mouthful.

Peering down at him, Peter has to admit that he doesn’t get the appeal. Sure, any blowjob’s a good blowjob - but he’d rather be dealing with a round blue ass than a flat white one. Yondu ain't of the same opinion. He sucks on his thumb before swiping down Kraglin’s crease like he’s paying for trinkets with a chit-card. “Ready to admit you missed _this_ too?”

Kraglin growls - not a noise Peter likes, when his dick’s the only muffler. He eases him up by the mohawk, just in case he's feeling bitey. Their cocks are full, swaying with the movement as Peter extracts himself from under Kraglin - ignoring his grumpy swats - and shuffles on his knees until he can replicate the procedure on Yondu. Sucking fingers, pressing them low, biting the curve of his shoulder as they breach…

They’re on the floor, as none of the bunks are broad enough to take three – a structural deficit Peter will have to rectify, although how he's gonna explain it to Gamora and co., he has no idea. They form a sandwich of bodies: pink on blue on sallow white. Peter, largest of the trio, uses his weight to his advantage. He bears down on Yondu, currently sniggering to himself as he rubs the sticky head of his cock over Kraglin’s hastily-loosened, spit-slicked hole.

That laughter breaks into a gasp, a hiss, a cuss muffled only by the bite Yondu takes out of Kraglin’s back as Peter pushes into him, in turn forcing Yondu a centimeter inside. Once his tip's pierced, the rest is sure to follow. But that doesn't mean it's not hurried: too tight, too dry.

Peter grabs blindly behind himself. He fumbles through his jacket, hunting for the lube tube. He finds it in its usual place: tucked inside a hole in the lining. Threads catch under his nails as he retrieves it. It takes a sharp wrench and a string of cusses to remove the cap. Once that's skittered to one side, lost to the dust bunnies beneath Rocket's bunk, Peter rolls a slick cool bead between index and thumb, smearing it around the seal where his body joins Yondu’s. Then, figuring that while he doesn’t much like the guy, he can still afford to be generous, he reaches under the pair of them and gives Kraglin similar treatment.

The noise that grates from Kraglin’s throat could be an infuriated growl or a grunt of thanks. Peter honestly can't tell. He jerks back. Yondu, pulled rearwards by the friction in his ass, is drawn out of Kraglin on the same stroke, yelping all the way. Peter waits until both of them are teetering on the brink. Then slams _in._

“Hell,” squeaks Kraglin.

Yondu doesn’t even manage that. Just braces himself with a hand to either side of Kraglin’s shoulders, back heaving against Peter’s chest, and tries to breathe through the tangled pain and pleasure as Peter thrusts and thrusts again, pausing only to dole out more lube.

It's tight. Deliciously, beautifully, _painfully_ tight; Yondu's clamping like he's cumming already, the rasp of a cock in his ass and an ass over his cock zapping pleasure through his brain on a constant feedback loop. Peter's prick feels as if it's being crammed through a hosepipe. Each fuck forwards takes concentrated effort, a grimace, a swallowing of his hiss.

Eventually though, they adjust. Things get slicker, hotter, _easier._ Well-trained muscle relaxes and the Ravagers find their rhythm.

Soon Peter can glide into his ex-captain with the full force of his thigh muscles. Which, as Yondu discovers, is a helluva lot. He pummels him into Kraglin like Yondu’s a pinball bounced between them, hips snapping as fast as if he were fucking him alone.

It’s a pretty impressive feat of strength. Sweat soon flies from Peter’s fringe, trickling down the gingery treasure trail to add more dampness to the meet and part of his and Yondu’s bodies, and Yondu’s and Kraglin’s below.

Kraglin, threatened with being smothered and with his dick crushed against the cold chrome, probably has the worst of it. But he soldiers on nevertheless, writhing beneath the thicker bodies on top of him and encouraging them with spat cusses, veiled taunts.

“C’mon now. You gettin’ old, boss?”

How he can string so many coherent words together is beyond Peter. Yondu certainly can’t. He tries to grind down, assert some dominance, but Peter’s pounding into him hard enough to make his knees give out. He winds up being drilled deep into Kraglin, no time to withdraw before Peter returns, balls slapping his and cock punching so deep that his pouch distends – just a little – round the tip. “F-f-fuck…”

“Well done,” Kraglin says, waspish as ever. “We're fuckin' alright. You ain’t completely senile.”

Yondu swats the back of his head. But that puts him off balance, and next time Peter plunges in he collapses over his mate. Face-down, ass up. His silk-soft internals spasm in surprise. And at this angle, Peter can hilt inside him.

“Oh yeah,” he groans, thrusting hard enough to jolt whines. He catches Yondu’s chin and rolls his face to one side, licking his lips at the dazed expression. “Oh _yeah._ ”

“Guys? D’you mind? I know you’re havin’ a cute lil’ father-son bonding moment, but _some_ of us wanna get off -”

Kraglin shuts up for all of five seconds, when a particularly hard punch of Peter’s cock has Yondu twitching inside him, whines crackling from behind his sternum. Then thumps the floor to get their attention. “Uh. Pete. Might wanna slow down...”

Peter takes great delight in ignoring him. He pops into and out of that internal ring, turning Yondu’s muscles to froth and his brain to mush. Try as he might to resist, try as he might to hold on, preserve this, make it _last…_ Peter’s convinced that this is one torture his old captain can’t endure.

And he’s right. Not fifteen seconds later, as Peter pulls out halfway and sets to grinding his cockhead directly on Yondu’s prostate, those fluttery clenches reach their peak. Yondu cums with a rasping moan.

He sounds kinda like he’s dying - Peter sticks a hand between him and Kraglin to find out. But no: there’s his captain’s heartbeat, sure and strong and three times faster than normal.

“Thassit, cap’n,” he says, rocking his pelvis. His dick grinds in place, wringing the last of Yondu’s cum out of him, before thrusting back in, chasing release of his own. “Thassit. That’s good, now.”

“No, that was way too fast,” grumbles Kraglin. Ever the pessimist.

Yondu’s still shifting inside him, but only because Peter’s still fucking _him:_ rough and hard and indomitable, thighs smacking the backs of his once-captain’s, and cock bottoming out every time with a loud wet squelch. Yondu’s soft dick, in comparison, barely stirs at his ex-mate.

He whimpers as he’s plowed forwards, squashing Kraglin into the floor-grills. As Kraglin can’t wrestle a hand underneath to give himself a jerk, he won't be getting all that much out of this. And as Yondu’s already cum, the relentless fuck of Peter’s cockhead over his prostate must be past pleasurable. The noises he’s making confirms – sharp yips, snatched gasps. When Peter grabs him again, turning his face to the light, he finds his mouth slack and drooling, the picture of spent want.

But Peter’s not done yet, and neither’s Kraglin. Both have more use to get out of the man they used to call captain. And judging by the wicked glint of a fang in Kraglin’s smile, he has the means to go about it.

“Outta me,” he grunts, reaching behind himself to smack Yondu’s quivering stomach. “Now.”

Yondu’s shaking too hard to obey. He tries though, and yelps when Peter squelches into him again, hard and fast and overwhelming. He slips from Kraglin, after a minute's futile wriggling, but doesn't have the strength to get back on his hands and knees, not with Peter fucking him from above. Kraglin growls – both at the weight on his back and the sudden lack-of-stretch – before heaving himself along the floor, out from under the sweaty pile. Peter glares at him. What’s he playing at? Peter doesn’t consider himself a control freak - he’d rather his partners have fun, play off his lead, contribute to their own pleasure. But he doesn’t trust Kraglin. At least Yondu, flat on his belly and shuddering from the raw stretch and squash of his hole, is in no position to be a threat. Oh, he _could_ be. The old git ain't too far-gone to whistle. But so long as Peter keeps at him like this, so long as he keeps drilling down, so long as his cockhead keeps squelching through Yondu’s innards and reverting his muscles to protoplasm, he’s safe.

Yondu scrabbles at the chrome flooring, cusses caught in the back of his throat. The metal provides little purchase. His jagged nails leave striations, but they can't dig in. He's unmoored. His only anchor is Peter, who hauls his ass to a fuckable height and snaps back and forth like he’s looking to saw him apart.

And Kraglin, who rolls over and uses the grip Peter’s got on Yondu’s waist - dragging his floppy body upwards, making him quiver from the depth of the angle - as an opportunity to insinuate himself beneath. He’s face up now, hard cock silvering the hair that sprouts from his groin and scrawny thighs. That same cock snugs up against the watertight lock of Yondu’s rim around Peter’s base: a probe, a question, a demand all at once. Over Yondu’s shoulder, Kraglin’s eyes are as dark as they’re mischievous.

“Think ya said somethin' bout _fucking him together?_ ”

“Huh,” pants Peter. Then thinks: _hey, why the heck not?_ “C’mon in. Room for another.”

Yondu shakes his head. He’s breathing too hard and too fast to formulate a denial. Peter amends himself with a chuckle and a saucy wink, which only makes Kraglin roll his eyes.

“Stick a finger or two up there first, though. Help the poor guy out.”

It takes a while for them to get settled. Yondu might be the most experienced meat-jockey here. But taking two together ain’t an everyday jaunt.

He clings to Kraglin, teeth scraping his ex-mate’s shoulder as he fights the urge to chomp. Peter’s barely moving - just a small, wet stir. It’s Kraglin’s fingers that have Yondu making so many noises, muffled by the skin he’s rolling between his jaws.

Peter pulls a face. He’ll probably have hair stuck to his tongue when this is through - but that’s a hazard of sleeping with Kraglin. For now, Yondu doesn’t seem to be thinking of the future. He’s locked onto Peter, hole pinching round the root of his cock, while Kraglin’s fingers curl and hook, tugging elastic skin, stretching him wider...

There’s a lot of lube involved - at Kraglin’s insistence. That’s surprising. Peter had been ready to intervene, should the Ravager mate turn this into one of his and Yondu’s pissing contests and use this moment of rare vulnerability to hurt him. But no – as soon as they got consent (a bark of “ _c’mon already, boy_ ” that could’ve been directed at either one of them) Kraglin hunkered down between Yondu’s legs and nuzzled his beaky nose on his captain’s belly while his index finger wriggled in.

Now he’s got him plied open, rim snagging on his knuckles and Yondu breathing in sharp pants. He repositions himself, facing Peter and Yondu with blue legs bracketing his hips. He hauls those legs tight around him. Peter grumbles a protest, kneeling to accommodate, and to let Kraglin shuffle in close. Then Kraglin guides Yondu’s face to his shoulder and cradles it there with one hand while the other steadily works the ring finger into him, besides the two already jostling for space besides Peter’s cock.

Peter feels everything. From Yondu’s little spasms, muscles fitting as the internal pressure increases, to the graze of Kraglin’s split knuckle on his dick.

“You’re enjoying this, right?” he remembers to ask, hefting Yondu higher in his arms. The snarl as he skids a half-inch up Peter’s cock, off Kraglin’s twisting fingers, says it all – _don't you dare stop now_.

Peter eases him full again. He smirks at Kraglin, and adds his own finger to the bargain, tapping out a hard rhythm against Yondu's taint, an inch above the puffy stretch of his entrance.

Yondu squirms. But he never shoves him away. He never says no either - even when the pressure on his hole is replaced by the blunt prong of a second cockhead.

That pressure increases. Crushes. _Burns..._ Until eventually, inevitably, something has to give.

If the rub of Kraglin’s fingers past his prick was exquisite, the slide of his dick is startling in its intensity.

Yondu’s legs flop limp, falling from where they were squeezing Kraglin's back. Peter’s left holding him, arms wrapping under his slack thighs, providing space beneath his slick-dripping ass for the pair of them to thrust.

Kraglin helps out, but while Yondu might be shortest of the trio, he ain't the daintiest guy. He's regained most of his meat, and Peter's forearms are trembling from the effort it takes to heft him about at such an unnatural angle.

But hey. He loves the workout. Especially when he gets to watch Kraglin watch his captain as he stuffs him almost to bursting.

Peter's gonna need a new lube tube. Poor thing looks mighty depleted. Kraglin's slicked himself up, as well as dabbling so much of the stuff into Yondu that his hole probably shines like an M-ship reflector. But no amount of lubricant can disguise the intensity of the pressure.

Yondu pinches them together like two hands stuffed in a glove. Peter grits his teeth and withdraws, savoring the pulse of that channel, the way it contracts as if it's trying to keep him buried. Then, before his swollen head slips loose, he pushes back in: smooth and slow but unyielding.

Kraglin copies him. The two of them move in tandem: first one, then the other, driving into and out of Yondu so his ass stretches in both directions.

The noise is the crudest thing Peter's heard. Loud, squelchy, obscene. Skin, slick, more skin, sweat. And of course, the rising tempo of their breath. They aren't fucking hard, but they're working against resistance. When Peter peers over the nearest heaving blue shoulder, into Kraglin's face, his pupils are filling the iris, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose.

When he catches Peter staring he grins, sharp and feral. He breaks the rhythm they've established, waiting until the pair of them have slid out to the head, Yondu an open gape. Then he and Peter barge their captain full together. Then slam in side by side.

Yondu _mewls._ Peter almost comes there and then. But Kraglin's smirking at him, dragging his vein-ridged prick sweetly over Peter's length like he's trying to make him jizz first...

Ooh, that sly git. Peter digs bruises into Yondu's thighs. He keeps him wide, hammering into the soft, lube-smeared crux between them.

Breath lurches out of Yondu's throat, laced with dazed whistles, half-formed clicks. But it's Kraglin Peter's glare bores into. Kraglin who fumbles under them, Yondu sagging boneless to one side, and mercilessly tweaks Peter's bollocks.

“For fuck's sake,” Peter bites out. He tosses his head back, Adam's apple straining the skin as he swallows. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you...”

But the words dissolve into nonsense – a garbled, drawn-out groan. His dick twitches. His abdominal muscles clench, defined against the sweating curve of Yondu's back. His nails carve long welts along Yondu's legs, catching on every scale, and he buries his face in the back of his neck so that when he cums – which he does, and explosively – all he sees is blue.

Kraglin chuckles. He keeps thrusting, aiming for the endgame. He even gives Peter's balls a parting twist. They squeeze like they're being wrung dry. A final string milks into Yondu's ass, sliding back along the length of Peter's cock.

It splurts out as Kraglin finishes. To say it's a lot is an understatement; the amount of liquid inside Yondu abruptly quadruples. Peter feels every wave pulse through Kraglin's prick in haptic high-definition. He boggles at the guy's contorted o-face, impressed despite himself. Drizzles coat the ginger hairs that dust Peter's thighs, and the darker, thicker thatch round Kraglin's groin.

When Kraglin pulls out with a sated grunt, that stream turns to a torrent. Yondu's overfilled, leaking and swollen and completely unable to do anything about it.

He clings to Kraglin, shoulders shaking. His legs crook out from his waist at near right-angles.

Peter, holding those same legs off the floor, winces both from the growing sting in his arms and on Yondu's behalf. Captain ain't supposed to be that flexible. Plus he's getting on a bit, as he likes to remind Peter when Peter's raring for a second round. But here's Peter forcing him into a split, stretching him almost to breaking point while the man's still weakly clamping on his cock.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He lets Yondu's legs flop to rest on the floor, the man slumping deadweight on his lap. His hands skid along Yondu's sweaty flanks. He cups his ass, feeling the warmth and firmness of his mounds, the sticky wetness between them. “How you doing, buddy? You okay there?”

Yondu doesn't say anything – which is concerning. Kraglin notices too. He stops sluicing cum and lube off his prick long enough to squint at his captain's face. “Oi, you die or what?”

Yondu shakes his head. He's a soft, loose sheathe, ringing Peter's flaccid dick in velvet. He doesn't make to move himself, content to snuggle in his lap with his back to Peter's chest, and hold out his arms demandingly for Kraglin to join them. Kraglin rolls his eyes. But he obeys, and next moment there's a bony, hairy Ravager crouched over Peter's legs, licking Yondu's chipped front teeth with the sort of feral hunger Peter associates with streetdogs. He holds his head in a spindly hand, long white fingers splaying across his implant like the limbs on a ghost spider, and tilts him into a kiss.

Peter would be jealous, if the same process weren't repeated on him. Hands tangle in his hair, a pair of thin flaky lips barely disguising the hard shape of teeth behind. Their beards scrub, but before they can tangle Kraglin draws back, helping Yondu to take his place.

The minutest shift of his body makes jolts stab Peter's prick. But the sharp thrills are more than worth it, because next minute Yondu's twisted to look at him, grin bright and brilliant and ugly as ever. “You boys're real good to me.”

“More than you deserve,” Peter agrees. The scoff and the slap are joking (or so he thinks; never did master Kraglin's knack of being able to tell when captain was serious). But the slow mold of blue lips against Peter's? That's anything but.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **That's the last chapter! Thank you all for reading, and for commenting!**


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